“Then why are you refolding the same shirt?”
“I know you will.”
I looked down. I was, in fact, refolding the same shirt.
“Because I’m your mother, and that’s my job.”
She laughed, that big open laugh that used to fill the whole apartment when she was five, and leaned her head against my shoulder for one second before pulling away.
“That’s my job.”
“Can I bring the sketchbook?” my daughter asked.
“Of course you can.”
She grinned and disappeared down the hall to pack it.
I sat there with a hoodie in my lap, wondering how a person could grow from a whole baby into someone who thought about saving seats for lonely friends.
She grinned and disappeared down the hall.
***
The morning the bus left, I stood in the school parking lot with a paper cup of coffee I never drank.
Kathleen hugged me hard and ran off with Brenda before I could say anything embarrassing.
Through the bus window, I watched them settle in. My daughter laughed at something Brenda said. Then her friend leaned past her toward the quiet girl in the next seat, and my daughter’s smile flickered for just a second before she caught herself and waved at me.
Kathleen hugged me hard and ran off.
I waved back and whispered to no one in particular that two weeks would fly by.
I had no idea what my daughter was carrying onto that bus.
***
The first week of camp, my phone became a small altar.
I checked it between loads of laundry, between client emails, and between reheating the same cup of coffee three times.
I had no idea what my daughter was carrying onto that bus.
I sent Kathleen long messages every couple of days. Photos of the neighbor’s cat sitting on our porch. A funny story about the woman at the pharmacy who called me “sugar” four times in one transaction.
Her replies were always short.
“Everything’s great!”
“Having fun!”
“Love you, Mom!”
I sent Kathleen long messages.
I told myself she was busy enjoying herself and didn’t have time to spend on her phone.
Teenagers at summer camp weren’t supposed to be texting their mothers paragraphs. If anything, the short answers were a good sign, right?
***
By the second week, I stopped sending long ones.
I didn’t want to look like the clingy mom.
I told myself she was busy.
***
Pickup day, the parking lot was chaos.
Duffel bags, sunburned faces, and kids screaming names across the asphalt.
Kathleen ran straight into me and hugged me tightly. Tighter than a two-week hug should be, I remember thinking, but I chalked it up to missing home.
“How was it, baby?”
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