“The Door Between Us”
It started small—so small I almost didn’t notice it at first.
My daughter Emma stopped talking to me like she used to. I’d be in the kitchen making dinner, stirring soup or loading the dishwasher, and I’d ask like always, “How was school today?”
She’d shrug. Maybe mutter, “Fine,” under her breath and disappear upstairs.
Then came the soft click of her bedroom door shutting behind her.
That quiet sound grew louder in my heart with every passing day.
I missed her. Not just her presence, but the way she used to be. She used to sit right on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs, filling the room with her voice. Telling me everything—what so-and-so wore to school, who got in trouble, what someone said at lunch. I didn’t always understand it, but I loved listening.
She used to laugh, those sharp little bursts that lit up even the darkest corners of my day. She helped me bake pies, peel apples, fold laundry—and while she worked, she’d gossip about a girl named Lydia who thought she ruled the school.
Now? Silence. And a locked door.
One night, I tried something small too. I made her a warm glass of milk. It was something I used to do when she was little—when she had nightmares and would crawl into bed with me, whispering about monsters in her closet or hard math tests.
Back then, I’d pull her close and promise, “You’re safe. I’m right here.”
So I walked upstairs, careful not to spill the milk. I knocked gently.
No answer.
I turned the knob.
It didn’t move.
Locked.
I froze, just standing there, hand still on the knob. Emma had never locked her door before. She used to sleep with it cracked open so the hallway light could sneak in—a comforting line of gold across the carpet.
Now it was pitch dark.
The next night, I tried again. Locked. And the night after. Still locked.
It felt like her door had turned into a wall—one that was growing thicker by the day, shutting me out of her world. I was losing her and I didn’t know why.
So, one night, while she was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, I made a decision I wasn’t proud of. My hands were shaking as I folded a tissue and slid it into the latch hole, just to keep the lock from working.
I told myself it was just to make sure she was okay. That was all.
When the house was finally quiet and the wind outside whispered against the windows, I crept toward her room.
The floor creaked like it was warning me not to go further. My hand hovered over the doorknob. My heart thudded.
I turned it slowly… and stepped inside.
And there he was.
A boy.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed, awkward and stiff, like he didn’t know what to do with his long legs. His brown hair curled a little at the edges, and his eyes—nervous, alert—snapped toward me as soon as I entered.
Emma was on the floor in her pajama pants, cross-legged, holding a bag of popcorn between her knees. The room smelled like coconut shampoo and cinnamon candles.
“Emma.”
My voice came out sharp. Cold. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.
The boy jumped like he’d been shocked. Emma’s eyes widened.
“Mama—”
“Get. Out,” I said, staring hard at the boy.
He didn’t argue. He scrambled to the window and climbed out like smoke—fast and silent.
Emma stood slowly, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
“It’s just Caleb,” she said. “He lives two blocks away. We were just talking.”
“You will not see him again,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. But my insides were churning.
Her voice cracked. “But why?! We didn’t even do anything!”
“I said no, Emma.”
Her eyes filled with hurt. “But all the girls talk to boys,” she whispered. “Why not me?”
I didn’t answer.
Because it wasn’t just any boy.
It was him.
The next morning, guilt sat heavy in my chest like cold bread dough—thick and unmovable. I hadn’t slept. I kept seeing Emma’s face, the way her chin shook, the way she crossed her arms like she was trying to protect herself from me.
I got up before sunrise and went into the kitchen. I cooked the way I used to when she was small and needed comfort—eggs with cheese, toast with strawberry jam all the way to the corners, and hot cocoa in her pink mug, the one with the chipped handle.
I arranged everything on a tray, made it look nice.
A silent apology.
I tiptoed up the stairs and knocked softly.
No answer.
I opened the door.
Her bed was untouched. The covers still smooth. My breath caught in my throat.
“Emma?” I called.
I checked the bathroom. Nothing.
I ran to the backyard. Empty.
Then I saw her phone—sitting on her nightstand.
She never left without it.
My heart pounded. I grabbed the house phone and called everyone I could think of—friends, parents, neighbors. No one had seen her.
Then the phone rang.
A number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Hi, is this Sadie’s mom?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Caleb’s mom—Judy. Your daughter’s here. She came over early this morning.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll come get her right away.”
Their house was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a drive through heavy fog. My thoughts spun. What would I say? Would Emma even come home?
Judy was already waiting on the porch when I pulled up. She held a dish towel in her hands, twisting it nervously.
“She’s upstairs with Caleb,” she said softly. “You can go up.”
I nodded. Walked inside. The house was quiet—just the hum of a fridge and a ticking clock.
I started up the stairs.
Then, halfway up, I heard a door creak behind me.
I turned… and froze.
Wade.
He stood at the end of the hallway. Older now—gray at his temples—but those same sharp blue eyes.
My knees nearly gave out. I held onto the railing to stay upright.
He looked at me like I was a ghost.
“I didn’t know she was your daughter,” he said, voice low, almost broken.
“She doesn’t know anything,” I snapped. “And that’s how it’s going to stay.”
I found Emma sitting on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to disappear.
Her hood was up, her chin trembling. She didn’t look at me.
We drove home in silence. She stared out the window. I gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me steady.
Then her voice broke the quiet.
“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
I blinked but said nothing.
“You hate him,” she said louder. “You hate Caleb’s dad.”
I pulled over and parked on the gravel. My heart was pounding.
I turned to face her.
Her eyes were already filled with tears.
“I loved him,” I whispered. “A long time ago.”
She waited, watching me.
“We were young. He promised me everything—said he’d marry me, build a life. I believed him. And then… he disappeared. No call. No goodbye. Just… gone. Straight into someone else’s arms.”
I swallowed hard.
“That woman became Caleb’s mom.”
Emma’s voice wavered. “So… Caleb’s not my—?”
“No,” I said quickly. “You and Caleb aren’t related.”
“Then why? Why punish me?”
I wiped at my eyes. “Because when I see him, I feel it all over again. The pain. The betrayal. I didn’t want that ghost from my past to show up in your life.”
She didn’t speak right away. Her reflection in the window looked small, fragile.
Then softly, she said, “I like him. He listens. He doesn’t laugh when I talk about frogs or comic books. He just… gets me.”
I looked at her through the mirror. She wasn’t smiling, but something in her voice sounded like hope.
“You always did fall for the gentle ones,” I said with a small, bittersweet smile.
We didn’t talk the rest of the ride. But the silence felt different—softer. Like a bridge was being built between us again.
When we got home, she went straight to her room.
I stood outside her door for a long moment.
That night, after dinner and dishes, I went back upstairs. I knocked gently.
“Yeah?” her voice called.
I opened the door.
She was sketching in her notebook, pencil in hand.
She looked up, surprised.
“I just wanted to say…” I paused. “You can see him. Caleb. If you want to.”
Her eyes filled instantly with tears. She nodded quickly, wiping them with her sleeve.
“I just… I want to be part of your life again,” I said. “Not someone you lock the door on.”
She crossed the room and hugged me tightly.
“I never wanted to lock you out,” she whispered. “I just wanted you to see me.”
“I see you now,” I whispered back. “I see all of you.”
And that night—for the first time in a long time—we left her door open.
