My daughter, Emma, changed all of a sudden.
She started locking her bedroom door. She barely spoke to me anymore. She used to come home from school and fill the kitchen with laughter and stories. Now, I’d ask, “How was school?” while cooking dinner, and all I’d get was a shrug or a quiet “Fine.”
Then she’d disappear upstairs.
Click. The door would close. And I’d be left standing there, staring at it.
I missed her voice. I missed how she used to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs and gossiping while helping me peel apples for pie. She would always talk about some girl named Lydia—who apparently thought she was better than everyone. Emma used to laugh so loudly it made even the hardest days feel lighter.
Now, there was only silence.
That soft click of her door became a wall. One I couldn’t climb over. It was like losing her, piece by piece, and not knowing why.
One evening, I warmed up a glass of milk. Something I hadn’t done since she was little and had nightmares. Back then, she’d curl beside me on the couch and whisper her fears—monsters in the closet or math tests that made her tummy hurt. I’d hold her close and promise, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
That night, I carried the milk up to her room. Knocked gently.
No answer.
I turned the knob.
Locked.
A twist in my heart stopped me cold. Emma had never locked her door before. She used to leave it cracked open, just enough to let the hallway light in. But now… it was complete darkness.
I tried again the next night. And the one after that. Still locked. That door might as well have been a wall between us. One that was growing taller every day.
So one night, while she brushed her teeth, I quietly slipped a folded tissue into the latch hole. My hands were shaking. I told myself it was just to check on her. Just to make sure she was safe. I hated myself a little for doing it—but I had to know what she was hiding.
Later that night, when the house was quiet and the wind whispered outside, I crept down the hallway. The floor creaked like it was trying to warn me. My hand hovered over the doorknob.
I turned it slowly.
What I saw made my breath catch.
A boy was sitting on the edge of her bed.
He looked nervous. Brown curls, long legs awkwardly bent, hands fidgeting. Emma sat cross-legged on the floor, pajama pants on, a bag of popcorn between them.
Her room smelled like coconut shampoo and one of those cinnamon candles she loved.
“Emma,” I said. My voice came out sharp, cold.
The boy jumped like someone had lit a fire under him.
“Mama—” she started.
“Get. Out.” I said to him.
He didn’t say a word. He jumped up, scrambled to the window, and vanished like smoke.
Emma stood slowly, arms crossed over her chest, eyes angry and scared all at once.
“It’s just Caleb,” she said. “He lives two blocks away. We were just talking.”
“You will not see him again,” I said firmly.
“Why?” she asked. Her voice cracked like glass. “We didn’t even do anything!”
“I said no, Emma.”
She stared at me, like she was searching for a piece of me she couldn’t find.
“But all the girls talk to boys,” she whispered. “Why not me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t just any boy.
It was that boy.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Guilt sat heavy in my chest, like a lump of cold bread dough. I kept seeing her face, how her chin trembled when I yelled. How she crossed her arms like armor.
Before the sun even came up, I went to the kitchen. I made her favorite breakfast—cheesy scrambled eggs, toast with strawberry jam spread all the way to the edges, and hot cocoa in her chipped pink mug.
I placed everything neatly on a tray and tiptoed upstairs.
I knocked softly.
No answer.
I opened the door.
Her bed was untouched. Pillows neat. Sheets still flat.
The tray shook in my hands.
“Emma?” I called, panic rising in my throat. I checked the bathroom. Nothing. Ran outside, called her name. Nothing.
Then I saw it.
Her phone—still on the nightstand.
Emma never went anywhere without it.
I grabbed the house phone and started dialing everyone I could think of—her friends, neighbors. No one had seen her.
Then, suddenly, the phone in my hand rang.
A number I didn’t know.
I answered, breath shaky.
“Hi, is this Sadie’s mom?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Caleb’s mother—Judy. Your daughter’s here. She showed up early this morning.”
I exhaled, feeling the panic slowly leave my body. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll come get her.”
Their house was nearby. Just a few blocks. But the drive felt like years. The air in the car was thick with memories—some I wanted to forget, some that still hurt too much.
I pulled up to a little blue house with peeling paint. The porch light was still on, though it was already morning.
Before I could even knock, Judy opened the door.
She looked nervous, wiping her hands on a lemon-scented towel.
“She’s upstairs with Caleb,” she said, her voice soft, almost sorry.
“I’ll get her,” I replied.
She stepped aside.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the ticking of a clock.
I walked up the stairs slowly.
But halfway up, a door creaked open behind me.
I turned—and froze.
Wade.
He stood there, hand on the doorknob, eyes locked on me.
Older now. Gray streaks near his temples. But those sharp blue eyes? Just the same.
I almost fell. My knees went weak.
He stared at me like I was a ghost.
“I didn’t know she was your daughter,” he said. His voice sounded broken.
“She doesn’t know anything,” I snapped. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.”
Emma sat in the back seat on the drive home, curled into herself, hood up, face turned to the window.
She looked so small.
My hands gripped the wheel tightly. I didn’t know what to say.
Halfway home, her voice broke the silence.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I blinked, stared ahead. Didn’t answer.
She sat up straighter, her voice sharper now.
“You hate him. Caleb’s dad. You hate him.”
The words hit me like ice water.
I pulled the car over.
My heart pounded as I turned to face her.
Her eyes were red, wet with tears.
“I loved him,” I said. “A long time ago.”
She didn’t speak. Just waited.
“We were young. He made promises—marriage, a home, a future. I believed him.”
I paused, swallowed.
“Then one day, he disappeared. No goodbye. No explanation. I found out later—he had moved on. With someone else. That someone… was Caleb’s mother.”
Emma’s voice trembled. “So… Caleb’s not my—?”
“No,” I said quickly. “You’re not related. It’s not that.”
“Then why are you punishing me?” she asked, her voice cracking.
Tears burned in my eyes.
“Because seeing him… seeing Caleb… was like ripping open an old wound. I was scared you’d get hurt the same way I did. And I couldn’t stand to watch that happen.”
She turned back to the window. Her reflection looked smaller somehow.
Then, in a soft, steady voice, she said, “I like him. He listens to me. He knows I love frogs and comics, and he doesn’t make fun of me. He gets me.”
I looked at her through the rearview mirror. No smile, but something soft had returned to her face.
I smiled too, even though it hurt.
“You always did fall for the boys with kind hearts,” I said, my voice thick with memory.
We didn’t talk after that. But the silence wasn’t heavy anymore. It was gentle. Healing.
When we got home, she went straight to her room.
I stood in the hallway a long time, staring at her door.
That night, after dinner, I walked upstairs and knocked softly.
“Yeah?” she called.
I opened the door.
She was on her bed, sketchbook in her lap.
She looked up.
“I just wanted to say,” I began, “you can see him. Caleb. If you want to.”
Her eyes widened. Tears came quickly. She nodded and wiped her cheek.
“I just… I want to be part of your life again,” I whispered. “Not someone you shut the door on.”
She stood up and rushed to hug me.
“I never wanted to shut you out,” she said into my shoulder. “I just wanted you to see me.”
I held her tightly.
“I see you,” I whispered back. “I see you now.”
And for the first time in a long, long while… we left the door open.