My daughter, Hanna, used to tell me everything. She used to come into the kitchen while I cooked and talk about teachers, test scores, and which classmate had the worst perfume in tenth grade.
Then, somewhere in the last few months, all of that started slipping away. Hanna would come home after school, but she barely stayed. Then I would hear, “I’m going to Grandpa Stuart’s,” before the front door shut again.
My daughter, Hanna, used to tell me everything.
My father-in-law, Stuart, lived in the same town and had always adored my daughter. After my husband, Pete, passed away eight years ago, Stuart became one of the few steady male presences in Hanna’s life, and I was grateful.
I spent years trying to be mother and father to one girl. But the distance Hanna put between us made that harder every day. She avoided my eyes. Gave one-word answers. She wanted the conversation over before it began.
Pete used to tell everyone our girl was going to be the best doctor in the world. Hanna once wore a toy stethoscope over her pajamas and announced she was going to fix everybody.
One afternoon after she had gone over to Stuart’s, I caught myself looking at that little plastic stethoscope hanging beside Pete’s photo and wondering when the easy, open version of our daughter started slipping away.