She came home, dropped her backpack beside the sofa, grabbed something to eat, and disappeared into her bedroom.
Sometimes she complained about homework. Sometimes she told me about a funny video one of her classmates had shown her. Most days, however, her answers were short.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“Not really.”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Mom, yes.”
I told myself it was adolescence.
I remembered being fourteen. I remembered wanting privacy, believing my mother knew absolutely nothing about the world, and thinking that every question was an interrogation.
So I tried to give Emily space.
Still, there were little things I noticed.
She had stopped talking about the girls she used to mention by name.
She no longer asked whether she could invite friends over.
When I suggested taking her shopping for new clothes, she said she didn’t need anything, even though she’d been complaining about her wardrobe a week earlier.
