Her face changed.
“Because you came here?”
“That’s not your problem.”
“But—”
“No.”
I stopped walking.
“Work is my responsibility. Being your mother is also my responsibility. I just got confused for a while about which one should always come first.”
She watched me carefully.
Then she said, “We have rehearsal Thursday.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I checked.”
A small smile appeared.
“It’s at five.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Like… actually there?”
That question hurt worse than everything else.
I squeezed her hand.
“Actually there.”
She leaned against my shoulder as we crossed the parking lot.
Her hair no longer reached my arm.
There was no heavy curtain of chestnut brown falling between us, no long braid swinging behind her.
For years, I had thought that hair was one of the most beautiful things about my daughter.
That night, I finally understood it wasn’t even close.
