She said, « Fine. »
She didn’t slam the door. That’s the part I think about.
If she had slammed it, maybe I could have remembered her as furious.
Maybe I could have told myself anger carried her away.
But she didn’t.
She just walked out.
That was July 12th.
She had on a green tank top I’d told her was too small, which is how the whole thing started.
It embarrasses me now, considering everything that followed.
At the time, I thought I was being a mother. Gia thought I was controlling her. We had been circling the same argument all summer.
Her clothes.
Her curfew.
Her friends.
The way she spoke to me.
The way I spoke to her.
At 17, she could turn any sentence into a challenge.
At 41, I could turn any challenge into a lecture.
That day, I told her she wasn’t leaving the house dressed like that.
