She wants the space, he wants a hug — and I’m standing in the kitchen at 6 pm trying to be both the mother who trusts and the mother who stays
Six o’clock in the kitchen. The light is that particular flat gold that September afternoons get. I am making something unremarkable — chopping or stirring, something that gives my hands something to do — and somewhere past the hallway Megan has closed her bedroom door. Not slammed. Closed. The quiet kind that says: I’
