My daughter Ava is 15, and for most of her life it has been just the two of us.
Her father, Daniel, was declared dead when she was four.
Car accident on a rain-slick road outside town. Fire. Closed casket. A police officer at my kitchen table saying, “I’m so sorry.” A funeral I barely remember. A death certificate I signed through a fog so thick I could hardly read my own name.
I was at the kitchen table pretending to drink soup.
A few weeks ago, my hair started coming out in clumps.
So I cut my hair short, wrapped scarves around my head, and tried to act like it did not matter.
Then one afternoon she came home from school, dropped her backpack by the door, and held out a box.
“I got you something,” she said.
I was at the kitchen table pretending to drink soup. “From where?”
“Open it.”
I looked up at her. “Ava… how?”
She swallowed and looked down.
She didn’t answer right away. She just reached up and pushed back the hood of her sweatshirt.
Her hair was gone.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped hard across the floor.
“What did you do?”
She said quickly, “I sold some of it, and the rest I gave to Ms. Carla at the salon. She made the wig for you.”
She swallowed and looked down. “I knew we couldn’t afford one. And I know you say it’s just hair, but I also know you miss feeling like yourself.”
I laughed through tears.
I crossed the kitchen in two steps and pulled her into me so hard she let out a little sound.
She pulled back just enough to look at me. “You’re my mom.”
That was it. I cried. Full-on, ugly, helpless crying.
She hugged me again and muttered, “Okay, wow. I was trying to do a nice thing. I did not expect this much sobbing.”
I laughed through tears. “You are unbelievable.”
“You raised me.”
She shrugged. “You gave up way more.”
The next morning, she went to school and I went to chemo.
I turned around and cupped her face. “I don’t ever want you thinking you have to fix this for me.”
“I know,” she said.
But she said it in a way that meant: I was still going to try.
The next morning, she went to school and I went to chemo.
It was a bad session. One of the bad ones where even the ride home feels impossible. By the time I got inside the house, I was so weak I had to sit on the edge of my bed just to take my shoes off.
I answered right away.
That was when my phone rang.
It was the school.
I answered right away.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Elena?” It was Ava’s history teacher. “I need you to come to school immediately.”
I sat up straighter. “Why? Is Ava okay?”
A few seconds later, Ava came on.
There was a pause. “She is safe. But there are police officers here, and they need to speak with you both.”
Every part of me went cold.
“Police? Why would the police be with my daughter?”
“I think you need to hear it in person.”
“Put Ava on.”
A few seconds later, Ava came on. Her voice was shaky.
I don’t remember the drive clearly.
“Mom?”
“What happened?”
“I found something.”
“What does that mean?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”
“What did you find?”
“Please just come.”
The principal’s office door was open.
I don’t remember the drive clearly. I remember red lights. I remember gripping the wheel so hard my hands hurt. I remember thinking of every terrible possibility in under 10 minutes.
By the time I reached the school, my legs felt hollow.
The principal’s office door was open. Three officers were inside. So was the principal. Ava was sitting in a chair by the wall with red eyes and both hands clenched in her lap.
I went straight to her.
That should have helped. It did not.
“Are you hurt?”
She stood up fast and grabbed me. “No.”
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