I took one final photo before my daughter disappeared across the water. Forty-five minutes later, the boat still hadn’t returned, and that picture was the only thing I had left to stare at.
Our daughter Maya turned 16 that summer.
She spent more time talking to friends than to us, rolled her eyes whenever I asked about her day, and constantly insisted I worried too much.
She wasn’t completely wrong.
I did worry too much.
When she was little, she’d slip her hand into mine without thinking.
By 16, affection looked different.
A quick hug before school.
A distracted, “Love you, Mom,” while already heading out the door.
The hugs were shorter.
The conversations were fewer.
I understood that growing up was supposed to look like this.
That didn’t make it easier.
When my husband, Daniel, suggested a week at a tropical resort before Maya started junior year, she immediately objected.
“I already told Emma I’d go shopping with her.”
“You can shop any weekend,” I said.
“This is different. I’ll miss everything.”
Daniel smiled.
“What exactly are you going to miss for one week?”
She crossed her arms.
“Life.”
I laughed.
“You’ll survive.”
She clearly disagreed.
It took two weeks of negotiating before she finally agreed to come.
We promised she wouldn’t have to spend every minute with us.
She could sleep late.
Meet other teenagers.
Go to the resort activities.
As long as we always knew where she was.
The morning we boarded the plane, Daniel leaned toward me.
“You know this is probably the last one.”
“What is?”
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