If someone had asked me a year ago how things were between me and my daughter, I would have smiled and said, “We’re close. Very close.”
Nina Rose, my beautiful daughter, is 25 now. She’s smart, kind, and full of life. She moved out at 18, ready to chase her own dreams, and I was proud of her for that. I missed her, of course, but she came back often—birthdays, Sunday dinners, movie nights. Every time she left, she’d leave something behind: her jacket, her favorite noodle bowl, even a sock or two. But more than that, she left behind her laughter, echoing in the rooms like music.
Then, little by little, she stopped coming.
The first time was Richard’s birthday last June. She called the night before.
“Sorry, Mom,” she said quickly, “there’s this big project at work. I’m swamped.”
I brushed it off. Things happen. Everyone misses something sometimes.
But then came my birthday in August. I got her favorite key lime pie, chilled sparkling apple cider, and Richard grilled steaks in the backyard. I kept looking at the clock.
She didn’t come.
The next day, she called.
“I wasn’t feeling great,” she said. “Didn’t want to risk giving you anything.”
That sounded like something Nina would say. But her voice… her voice didn’t sound like her. It was rushed. Distant. Like she wasn’t really there.
By Thanksgiving, the excuses were piling up.
“I’ve just been exhausted, Mom.”
“Max’s family has plans already.”
“Maybe next week?”
Each time, her voice changed—apologetic, robotic, or flat. None of it felt like her.
She didn’t come for Christmas. She didn’t call for New Year’s. By February, I stopped setting a place for her at dinner. I told myself it was a phase. That she’d come around.
That one Sunday, I’d look up and she’d be at the door with that big smile and say, “Miss me?”
But she didn’t.
I asked her directly once on the phone:
“Sweetheart… is something wrong?”
“No, Mom. Just busy.”
“You sure? You sound—”
“I’m fine. Really. I have to go. Can I call you back?”
She rarely did.
At night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of every reason why she might pull away.
Was she sick? Was Max hurting her? Did she lose her job? Was it something I said?
One night, I sat in the laundry room holding a blouse she’d left behind. I cried into it like it could hug me back.
Richard walked in and saw me.
“She’s growing up, Elaine,” he said, dryly. “Let her.”
But it didn’t feel like growing up. It felt like grief.
I finally reached out to her best friend, Camille.
“Hey, just checking in. Have you heard from Nina?”
Camille’s voice tightened. “Yeah… she’s fine. Just busy, I guess. But I’ll tell you if anything’s wrong. Promise.”
Her words felt fake. But I didn’t press. I just wanted someone—anyone—to tell me what was really going on.
Then, everything changed.
It was a Wednesday afternoon. I had taken the day off to run errands and clear my mind. I was in the grocery store, wandering more than shopping. I turned into the bakery section…
And there she was.
Nina.
She looked different. Her hair was longer, darker at the ends. She wore a soft green jacket. She was laughing with the woman behind the counter. She looked healthy. Happy. Fine.
My heart leapt—and then sank.
She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t in trouble. She was avoiding me.
Her eyes met mine. She froze.
“Nina?” I said, breath caught in my throat.
“Mom,” she replied with a flicker of a smile. “Hi.”
“What are the odds?” I said, walking closer, trying to sound calm. “I’ve been calling…”
“I know,” she interrupted, voice fast. “I’ve been meaning to…”
“Don’t, Nina,” I said gently. “Not here. Please.”
She gave a small nod. We walked outside together. She clutched her grocery bag like a shield. Her shoulders were tight, like she was bracing for something.
“Nina,” I said, softer now. “Please tell me what’s going on. If I did something, if you’re hurting… just say it. I can’t take the not knowing.”
She looked away. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“It’s not you, Mom.”
“Then what is it?”
She looked down. Her hands shook.
“It’s Richard.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
She hesitated. Then spoke slowly.
“That spring weekend I stayed over… you went out to the dry cleaner, remember?”
I nodded.
“I was in the kitchen. He came down… holding something.”
I felt it before she said it.
“My diary. The one I used to carry back and forth. I must’ve left it. He was reading it out loud. He laughed at me. Mocked me.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“He said, ‘Poor little princess Nina needs a therapist,’ and laughed like it was a joke.”
I was speechless.
“He read about my miscarriage, Mom.” Her voice cracked. “He mocked me about the most painful thing in my life.”
Tears stung my eyes. I felt sick.
“I didn’t tell you,” she said, wiping a tear, “because I thought maybe you’d pick him. I didn’t want to make you choose. But I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t.”
“I didn’t know,” I whispered.
“He’s always hated that you had me,” she said. “But why marry someone who already has a child if you’re going to treat her like that?”
She stepped back.
“I thought he made you happy. I didn’t want to stand in the way.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. I watched her walk away.
That night, I didn’t sleep. I drove to my sister’s house and stayed on her couch staring at the ceiling.
At sunrise, I filed for divorce.
That same day, I kicked Richard out. I dumped his wine, took down every photo, cut the phone line. I made the house mine. Really mine.
Two weeks later, I stood outside Nina’s apartment with a key lime pie and a shaking heart.
She opened the door in a gray sweater. No makeup. Just her.
“Mom?” she said, surprised.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She let me in. We sat in silence for a while. The pie sat untouched.
“I left him,” I finally said. “Filed for divorce. Kicked him out. Sold the house. I’m in a new place now.”
Her eyes widened.
“You did?”
“I didn’t know what he did. If I had—Nina, I swear—”
“I thought you’d choose him,” she said softly.
“I already did once,” I said. “Never again.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I kept thinking maybe you saw it. Maybe you let it happen.”
“I was blind,” I said. “But never again.”
She reached across the table and held my hand.
“I missed you, Mom.”
“I missed you more.”
That night, I lay in my new apartment. And for the first time, I felt something new—hope.
The next week, she visited.
She brought a candle called “Clean Slate” and a little rosemary plant. We baked cookies. I messed up the flour and we laughed so hard I nearly dropped the tray.
Later, wrapped in a blanket on the balcony, she whispered:
“I used to feel like I had to hide pieces of myself around you.”
“I know,” I said. “And I’m sorry.”
“It feels different now. Lighter.”
We sat in the quiet. Then I asked,
“If you ever want to move back in… the guest room is yours.”
She smiled.
“Thank you, Mom. But I think I need my own space right now. Max and I are healing. We might move in together soon.”
“I understand,” I nodded. “But can I ask for one thing?”
“Just one?” she teased.
“Sunday dinners. No skipping.”
“Deal.”
“And maybe Wednesday takeout?”
She laughed. “Okay, okay! And first Saturday of the month is now Baking Day.”
Weeks passed. Then months. Nina came by often. Sometimes just for tea. Sometimes with leftovers.
We went to farmers’ markets. Thrifted cookbooks. Baked without measuring.
One day, all three of us—me, Nina, and Max—stood in my kitchen making apple crisp. It felt like home.
“This is perfect, Mom,” she said, taking a bite.
“I’m glad you like it, my rose.”
I’m still her mom. Always was.
But now, I see the whole picture. The truth. I missed so much. I trusted the wrong person. I let my daughter carry pain in silence.
Now, I choose differently.
I choose peace. I choose Nina.
And for the first time… I choose me.
