One night—after a long period of silence between us—I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me.She sighed and said,“Mom,you haven’t done anything.It’s fine.”It is fine—just distant.
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect.When Allie was a toddler,I would go to the day-care center after work.I’d find a quiet spot and she would nurse—our eyes locked together,reconnecting with each other.
In middle school,when other mothers were already lamenting the estrangement they felt with their adolescent daughters,I hit upon a solution:rescue raids.I would show up occasionally at school,sign her out of class and take her somewhere—out to lunch,to the movies,once for a long walk on the beach.It may sound irresponsible,but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were floundering.We talked about everything on those outings—outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school,I’d get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch,and we’d silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night,the light off,but before she went to sleep.I’d sit on the edge of her bed,and she’d tell me about problems:a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class,a boy who teased her,a friend who had started smoking.Her voice,coming out of the darkness,was young and questioning.
A few days later I’d hear her on the phone,repeating some of the things I had said,things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings.I want the romanticized version,where we go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other.I want smiles through tears,bittersweet moments of reminiscence and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart,Allie’s feelings have gone under ground.When I reach to touch her arm,she pulls away.She turns down every invitation I extend.She lies on her bed,reading Emily Dickinson until I say l have always loved Emily Dickinson,and then she closes the book.
Some say the tighter your bond with your child,the greater her need to break away,to establish her own identity in the world.The more it will hurt,they say.A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again,tells me,“Your daughter will be back to you,”
“I don’t know,”I say.I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie.I want to say,“Talk to me—or you’re grounded!”I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases:“Think of everything I’ve done for you.”
Late one night,as I’m getting ready for bed,she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth.For a moment,I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn’t approve of.But then she says,“I want to read you something.”It’s a pamphlet from her college.“These are tips for parents.”
I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud:“‘Don’t ask your child if she is homesick,’it says.‘She might feel bad the first few weeks,but don’t let it worry you.This is a natural time of transition.Write her letters and call her a lot.Send a package of goodies...’”
Her voice breaks,and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder.I stroke her hair,lightly,afraid she’ll bolt if I say a word.We stand there together for long moments,swaying,reconnecting.
I know it will be hard again.It’s likely there will be a fight about something.But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight,both of us tired and sad,toothpaste smeared on my chin,holding tight to—while also letting go of—my daughter who is trying to say good-bye.