It’s 6 a.m., and I groggily rise from a restless night’s sleep to nudge my daughter awake for school—a routine I’ve followed since her kindergarten days. A bright light spills from the gap under her door, signaling she’s pulled an all-nighter, likely finishing a French paper she should have started days ago. She’s still in high school, and I can’t help but wonder how she’ll manage college. I did it, so I trust she will too.
I cautiously open her door, and the light floods her room. “Isabella?” I call, a hint of uncertainty in my voice as I make my way downstairs. Perhaps she’s just in the shower. I search the house, my heart racing. What if she’s gone? Thoughts spiral in my mind; this year has been hard on her, and on me as well.
Holding my breath, I return to her room. A familiar blanket from her younger days lies crumpled at the foot of her bed. I approach, anxiety gripping me. I can already picture the headlines: “Local Teenager Collapses While Writing French Paper.” I’ve been a single mom for too long, and menopause doesn’t help either. These are the thoughts I entertain at this early hour. Maybe I’m the one who needs a wild run through the cornfield. The image makes me smile, but I worry about what the neighbors might think.
I lift the blanket and find her curled up in yesterday’s clothes, like a little seedling. I reach out and touch her hair, and once again, the headline flashes in my mind. I feel foolish for these morbid thoughts, but I’m also grateful she can’t read my mind.
I focus on her soft, steady breathing. Her shoulder rises and falls in a rhythmic motion, reminiscent of the countless hours I spent by her crib, ensuring she was still with me. That deep yearning resurfaces; I want to freeze this moment, to hold her close forever.
The clock ticks, reminding me it’s time to wake her. My hesitation grows. I know the routine—she’ll complain, throw a teenage tantrum, and wish to stay home. She knows my soft spot; she’s my only child, and with college just around the corner, I might let her sleep late today. I can almost envision myself peeking into her room occasionally, just watching her.
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In summary, mornings can be a chaotic mix of worry and love as I navigate my daughter’s transition toward adulthood. With each new day comes a blend of nostalgia and hope, reminding me of the precious moments we have together.