After two weeks of radio silence, I look up and she's standing in my living room. She's here to get some of her things, and it's a planned visit, so I'm not surprised, except that she came in so quietly even Lola didn't wake. I think of all the times her galloping feet have shaken this home on its foundation and I watch her stand dead still, fear and hope at war on her face. She thinks I'm angry. She looks taller, and, impossibly, younger. She looks tired as I feel.
She lets me hug her, but she insists on packing up her room by herself. She won't even let me inside, though clearly I've been seen the mess in the two weeks she's been gone. Seeing her eases the mom-worry that's been thrumming beneath my skin. It also soothes something in me, even as it breaks my heart, to remember how fiercely independent she is at 13. I've been hurt she hasn't contacted me. Now I remember it's nothing new. It's just that she doesn't like others to see her turmoil, whether it's her bedroom or her heart.
I stand just outside the door, keeping up a stream of small talk so she can track my location by my voice. I pray, God, I pray, that she will do the same for me these coming weeks.