I saved for months to send my 13-year-old daughter to the summer camp she’d dreamed about for years. When I arrived three weeks later, the director told me Mia wasn’t welcome back. I expected to hear she’d broken a rule. Instead, she showed me a chore chart with my daughter’s name marked everywhere.
After three hours driving, I finally turned into the camp entrance.
Mia reached my car before I had even finished parking.
“Mom!”
The director told me Mia wasn’t welcome back.
She yanked open the passenger door, threw her arms around me, and nearly knocked my sunglasses into the gravel.
I laughed into her hair. “Hi to you too.”
She smelled like sunscreen, lake water, and whatever industrial detergent camps used on towels.
“Hi to you too.”
When she finally backed away, I got my first proper look at her.
Three weeks had somehow made my 13-year-old look older.
