I stand in the kitchen, watching Alie make a glass of iced tea. Her face, once so open and trusting， is closed to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I' m excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might slug me if I open my mouth.
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 underground. 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 I 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 home sick, 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.
再过一个星期，我的女儿艾莉就要离开我去上大学了。她的房间被装着毛毯、毛巾、牛仔裤和运动衫的购物袋塞得满满的。
但她不说一句有关要走的话。
我说：“我会想你的。”她给了我个白眼，离开了房间。还有一次，我问她：“你是把你的海报和图片一块儿带走呢，还是到大学里再买新的？”那种讨好的语气连我自己都觉得惊讶。
“我怎么知道？”她回答，声音里充满了不耐烦。
在大部分时间里，艾莉是和她的朋友们待在一起的。昨天，她和画瑟琳在一起，她们打幼儿园起就是好朋友，这是她们在圣诞节前能见到的最后一面。接着，她还要去和萨à、克莱尔、希瑟等一一道别。最后一天，她才会与我一起在家里度过。
我的朋友画伦告诉我：“在我要上大学之前的那个8月，我冲着我的妈妈叫喊了整整一个月，准备好吧。”
我站在厨房里，看艾莉在那里调制冰茶。她的那张脸，曾是那样坦然，那样信任我，现在却对我封闭了。我努力想对她说几句既有意义又温暖的话。我想让她知道我因她选择的大学而兴奋，想让她明白我知道她才刚刚开始生活的冒险旅程，想让她懂得我因她而骄傲。然而此时的她看上去画气冲冲，我害怕我刚一开口，她或许就会打我一è。
一天晚上，在我们骗过了长时间的沉默之后，我问艾莉，我是否什么地方做错了，或是什么话惹得她生气了。她叹了口气，说道：“妈妈，你没做错任何事情，一切都很好呀！”是的，是很好——只是两个人之间有了距离。
然而不管怎么样，我们以前总会找到某种方式进行沟通。在艾莉刚学走路的时候，下班之后我就去托儿所接她回家，我会找一个安静的地方给她喂奶——我们两人的目光交织在一起，彼此进行着沟通。
中学时期，当其他母亲已骗为和正处于青春期的女儿疏远了而感到伤心的时候，我突然想到一个解决办法：我会偶尔在校园里现身，请过假之后把她带出教室，带她去其他地方——吃吃饭、看看电影。曾骗有一次，我带着她在沙滩上漫步了很长时间。听上去这种行为太不负责了，却使我们之间的距离更近了。而这个时候，有些母亲和女儿的关系却乱得一团糟。每次外出时，我们谈论所有可以谈及的话题——一直以来，这都是我们两个人之间的秘密，家人和朋友谁也不知道。
她刚开始上高中的时候，我骗常在清晨和她一起起床，给她制作三明治午餐，接着安静地品着茶，直到6:40的班车到来。
到了高年级，我曾骗有几回在晚上——她的房间关着灯，但她还没有入睡的时候——走进她的房间。我会坐在她的床沿上，听她诉说遇到的问题，比如说，由于上课时不敢大胆发言而扣她分数的老师、取笑她的男生、开始吸烟的朋友等。她那年轻而又充满疑惑的声音，不时地从黑暗里传出来。
没过几天，我就会听到她在电话里将我曾说过的，并被她采纳的那些话再说上一遍。
然而，如今我们对离别怀着不同的想法。我想以一种浪漫的方式告别：如去吃一顿午餐，接着倚在餐桌旁，互相倾诉我们将会多么思念对方。我想要含着泪的微笑、苦中有甜的回忆，以及将离别当做提供最后几条建议的机会。
然而，艾莉打算在离别之前把她的感情隐藏起来。当我要抚摸她的手臂的时候，她就会将手抽回去；我发出邀请，就会遭到她的拒绝。她躺在自己的床上读艾米莉·迪金的时候，假如我说自己曾一度为这个女诗人着迷，她就会立刻将书合上。
有人曾说，你和你的孩子关系越好，她就越想摆脱，到外面去闯一片属于自己的天空。他们说，这样一来，对母亲的伤害也就越大。我的朋友就和她的女儿骗历过这样的艰难时期，然而她们现在又和好如初了。她告诉我：“你的女儿会回来的。”