When your kid graduates from college — and let’s just pause right here for a big hallelujah because you can now go back to having two toppings on your pizza — their décor level graduates, too. At least, one can hope. When they take off that cap and gown, they also shed their dorm décor, and leave behind their futons, milk crates, frameless posters taped to the wall and fraternity-emblazoned glassware. As my oldest daughter put it, “You want to scale up the maturity level to something a little more professional.” Paige, age 23, is making her foray into the working world — pause again to send up a prayer to the saint of jobs and work even if you’re not Catholic — and is decorating her first Real Place. However, like the bazillions of other newly minted, emancipated graduates, Paige still has a milk-crate budget. The new place is a cute second-story duplex in Houston, which she is outfitting with the help of her boyfriend, John, who has many fine attributes and endearing qualities, including the ability to paint, sand, lift heavy furniture and tutor younger siblings in physics. A few weeks ago, I flew in to give Paige a hand with the place, but no sooner had I set down my two bags — one of which contained a nine-by-12 needlepoint rug; three vintage French fashion illustrations (framed and nicely matted), a wire whisk and a pair of tongs (I wonder what TSA made of that!) — than this bittersweet thought hit: My work is done here. “Great job!” I said, with mixed feelings of pride (That’s my girl!) and heartbreak (She doesn’t need my help — sob!).