She stared at me as if I had announced that I owned her.
« It’s a tank top, Mom. »
« It’s too small. »
« It’s mine. »
« That’s not the point. »
« Then what is the point? »
I wish I had answered differently.
I wish I had looked past the shirt and seen my daughter standing there.
Instead, we pushed harder.
Every sentence became sharper.
Then she grabbed the beach bag from the chair.
I thought she was bluffing.
She thought I was bluffing too.
« Then go. See how far you get. »
She said, « Fine. »
And she left.
By sunset, I was irritated.
By midnight, I was scared.
By morning, fear had become something physical.
It sat inside my chest and refused to move.
I called her friends. I called their parents. I drove streets I had driven a thousand times before and suddenly saw every ditch, parking lot, and side road differently.
