That Needing Sensation

My teenage daughter yells, "Jeez, Mom. You're so stupid!" before slamming the door on my face.

I stare at the white door, my feet rooted to the carpet, my heart breaking open a bit, like the lighting-shaped crack we've had in the bathroom wall for years. I drag myself to the bedroom and close the door, gently. I sit on the bed for a while, my hands flattening the comforter while trying to figure out what I could have said to deserve such harsh words.

"Do you want to have dinner together? Dad is working late again," I said. How can that elicit such a response?

The air conditioner turns on with a gentle roar, making me shiver.

I go to the closet, looking for something warm. The hangers are full of clothes, even some with tags on. I run my hands on them, stopping on the light blue cashmere sweater he used to love. I'm about to slam the door, to erase the thought, but then I see it, the purple rolling suitcase we bought a decade ago—for that second honeymoon trip to the Caribbean that we never took.

It's hiding in the corner, taunting me like a mischievous child. Without thinking, I place it on the bed. What if I pack it?

Before I know it, I'm pulling up clothes at random, throwing them inside the luggage. When it's full, I sit, waiting for the adrenaline to rush out of my body, but the energy dripping turns into sadness. Suddenly, I want to knock on my daughter's door, begging her to be five again, and bring me drawings of flowers titled, 'Mommy.'

I have the delusional thought that maybe she's behind my door now, waiting to apologize. But when I open it, the corridor is empty. Her silent room worries me, until I remember that she has her AirPods on, and she’s probably watching TikTok videos of parent- mocking teens, maybe looking for one titled, 'How to tell your mother that your father is cheating on her.'

I want to tell her that what she did was wrong. I want to take away anything: her phone, tv, computer, Nintendo switch, and all the electronics that keep her company, but what would that get me?

Maybe if I weren't so tired all the time, maybe if I had a united front, or if she weren't telling the truth.

So many if's.

The purple luggage awaits on the bed, its bulky shape leaving marks on the comforter, just like my husband's body used to do. I exhale and pull the suitcase out of the room, stopping by my daughter's door. I think about knocking and saying, “I stayed for you, but since you don’t need me anymore..."

Instead, I use both hands to lift the suitcase down the stairs, huffing and puffing on each step. I trip right in the middle, holding onto the rail on time to avoid a fall, but also releasing the suitcase. The bulky purple bag rolls until it hits the granite floors with a loud ‘thud’ and slides, open—like my life—revealing all my clothes and undergarments.

I run downstairs and I hear, "What the hell, Mom?"

My daughter is watching me, from the top of the stairs, her eyes going from the open suitcase to me and back.

Before I know what's happening, the ridiculousness of the situation hits me, and I laugh, long and loud. I can't stop myself and soon I'm on the floor, holding onto my stomach, tears streaming down my cheeks.

My daughter kneels in front of me and grabs my face. "Are you okay?" she asks, her eyes flooded with concern.

And I see just how beautiful she is, how much she resembles her father on her mouth and nose, but also how her eyes are mine. I stop laughing and stare, love gushing out of every single one of my pores, the energy of it travelling from my heart to her hands, my eyes telling her more than I have ever dared to say.

"Let me help you." One warm hand pulls me up, the other wraps around my shoulders.

I'm sorry, Mom," she whispers, her voice tremulous.

I smile, placing my forehead against hers. "It's okay."

She smiles back.

"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" I ask, moving us away from the open luggage and into the kitchen, basking in the sensation of being needed.