“Amazing,” she said, smiling into my shoulder.
“How was it, baby?”
***
On the drive home, I asked about the rope course, the canoe race, and the campfire skits she’d been rehearsing in the living room for a month. Kathleen gave me the answers. They just didn’t have any substance.
“It was fine, Mom. I’m tired.”
I didn’t push.
She’d been away for two weeks. Of course, she was tired.
“I’m tired.”
***
The unraveling was quiet.
Monday, the sketchbook stayed on my daughter’s nightstand. Tuesday, it was in the same spot, open to the same page. I realized I hadn’t seen her open it once since she’d been home.
***
At dinner, Kathleen pushed her food around and answered my questions in single syllables. She’d stare at her phone with a face I didn’t recognize. Not scrolling, just looking.
The unraveling was quiet.
My daughter had stopped talking about her day and seemed sad almost all the time.
“Kath. Talk to me. Did something happen at camp?”
She shrugged.
“I got into an argument with a friend. Over a photo. It’s stupid.”
“A photo of what?”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom.”
“A photo of what?”
I assumed she meant Brenda.
I remember thinking, of course, 13-year-old best friends imploding over nothing. Classic.
“You want me to call Brenda’s mom? We could…”
“Mom!”
Her voice was sharp for half a second, then soft again.
“It’s fine. Really. I just need a couple of days.”
I assumed she meant Brenda.
***
Days turned into a week. The sketchbook didn’t move.
I watched Kathleen from the doorway one night, curled on her side, with her phone facedown on the pillow beside her. She wasn’t crying. My kid, my chatterbox, had gone somewhere I couldn’t follow, and every time I tried, she smiled tightly and closed the door.
I kept telling myself to give her space. She’s a teenager. She’s allowed to have friend drama without her mother orchestrating a peace summit.
But something kept whispering that wasn’t the whole story.
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