Short story
My daughter’s closed door
For the mothers who let their children grow too fast
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Everyday is the same. I am used to it. But it doesn’t make it any less painful.
I grab my phone, dial the same exact numbers, and wait for hours — at least it seems so to me — for my daughter to pick up. She never answers right away, and when she does, it always hurts.
"Hi, mom."
"Hey, sweetie", I try my best to soften my voice so she knows I just miss her and want to know if she's okay. "How are you? How was your day?"
"Mom, my day is always hard, okay? I have two tests tomorrow, can you please leave me alone?"
My heart gets heavy for a moment. I fight the tears that quickly flood my eyes and, just as yesterday, make an effort to keep my voice soft and my speech calm. "I understand, honey, I just wanted to check on you… you know, to see if you're okay." I pause for a moment, her answer is complete silence. "I miss you", I say, hoping that today she's gonna realize I deserve to hear it back.
She shuts a door, that I presume is her bedroom's, and says "I know, mom. I'm just nervous about school. Sorry, but I really don't have time to keep talking to you. I need to iron my uniform and finish studying for my tests. You don't understand how hard it is here!"
She didn't say it back.
"Okay, baby. Good luck with your test." I hang up. Tired.
I swallow all my tears. Gotta get back to work. I spent my break in between jobs to say hi to my kid, and she couldn't even say 'I miss you', or 'I love you' to her mother. I try to get mad at her while I look for my car keys. Where the hell did I put them?
They're in my left hand.
Stupid.
I'm so stupid. Why do I care about her so much? How can I love someone so much when I am not loved back? How could I let her go live in another city if I knew I was gonna miss her? And when… when did she grow apart from me?
"Bye, kiddo. Take care of yourself." I scream to my baby boy before going downstairs. "Bye, mom. Love you!", he replies. My sweet boy.
As I start the car, something starts within me, too. A sudden ache takes over my stomach and my throat instantly closes, tightly. I can't throw up now. Can't teach a class with vomit on my pants. I swallow, once again, whatever is bothering me, and drive, as fast as the speed limit allows me, to my evening shift at school.
"It was guilt."
"Sorry, what did you say, Carol?" I get back to my senses.
"The feeling. The feeling Alana was embodying while she was interpreting the song", Carol says. "It was guilt."
Indeed, it was. I turn to the whiteboard and take a deep breath, as I write:
G-U-I-L-T
"And why do you think she chose to embody this particular feeling?" I ask my students, still facing the board, while a recollection of images come across my head.
The sound of their voices fades into the background and all I can see is my daughter, laughing, full of joy, and proud of herself, the day she found out she could read.
Then I hear my son, calling me while I write some reports for the school board. I can't see him. But I remember the reports on my computer's screen.
Once again, my throat stops the guilt from coming out. "My loving son," I think. "I am so sorry I didn't answer your call that day". I try to remember the last time my daughter called me or reached out to me, saying that she needed me, or that she wanted something from me… and I can't.
"Miss K, are you alright?" Alana asks, getting closer to me as the other students continue arguing their points.
"I… Can I tell you guys something?"
The whole class stops arguing and immediately turns the attention to me.
"It's about my daughter"
"Terra?" They ask.
"She's awesome!" I hear someone say from the back of the classroom.
We live in a small town. Everybody knows who my family is, mostly because my husband and I are very… socially active. He's a Lieutenant, who's involved in several community projects and I am a teacher in 2 of the biggest schools here. My daughter was the first girl from our town to ever go to a military school, and before that she was already known for being involved in every and each school project and extra curricular activity. My son is the pre-school sweetheart, and all the little girls have a crush on him — as well as all the teachers.
"Yeah… Terra. Have I told you about her as a kid?"
I hear an unison "Nooo", followed by "please, tell us, miss K!"
So I start talking, for the first time ever, about my personal life… to my teenage students.
"She was an independent kid. My first born child was considered a prodigy. By me, I should add." They laugh.
I feel like a heavy burden is coming out of my chest as I speak, but at the very moment I open my mouth to inhale enough breath to keep talking, I stop myself. This is wrong. I should be teaching, not letting off steam.
I look at my students, their faces twisted with expectation, and say "You know what? Maybe another time."
On my way home, I continue my speech, having a laptop and some notebooks perfectly placed in the back seat of the car as an audience:
"At school, she was always on the top 3 students of her class; at home, I never had to ask her twice for anything; at social gatherings she was the sweet girl who everyone liked.
My youngest, on the other hand, isn't as independent. But he's an amazing kid. He is physically gifted and, honestly, can make anyone laugh in a matter of seconds. He is a sensitive boy, so he always reaches out to me whenever something difficult happens.
He needs me.
And it breaks my heart that I can't always be there for him.
Since her 11th birthday, my daughter always closes her door as soon as she gets home. She never asks for anything. She didn't even ask me to help her get into the military school. She did it all by herself. And when I found out she wanted to go, it was already too late for me to think that I didn't want her to leave. It's almost like she's escaping from something. Escaping from me.
She doesn't need me.
Yet, I can always be there for her.
Why?"
The silence in response to my question follows me home, where I come to an absent husband, who's playing soccer with his friends, and a sleeping son, whom I feel like I'm failing.
I silently walk to my bedroom, even though my stomach aches with hunger, close the door, and fall to my knees to pray. Just like my mother taught me.
