Talking Forward

Finding connection with my teen in the most ordinary Tuesday moment.

There was about a fifteen-second pause before she finally said, “I feel so bad.” She drew out the word bad, stretching it until it hung between us.

I was thinking it too, though I wasn’t about to say it first. That “feel bad” feeling comes for me often in small, ordinary moments. Like the other night, when I was taking the dog out and a kid rode past my driveway balancing a large Dunkin’ refresher and a paper bag that clinked and rustled with what I imagined were snacks. He slowed right in front of me, struggling to adjust his grip.

I called out, “How much farther do you have to go? That doesn’t look easy.”

“Just up the street,” he said. “I got my siblings some food.”

And there it was, that sinking feeling. My throat dropped into my stomach. Wanting to help, I blurted out what I realized later probably sounded incredibly creepy: “I can follow you and hold your refresher if that helps.”

He declined, wisely. I still think about him sometimes, hoping he made it home with the snacks intact. That’s how I trick myself into easing the ache; imagining it all ended well.

So when I looked over at Big Sis, my 13-year-old, I said, “Ugh, I know. Why would she do that on a Tuesday afternoon? At least save it for a Saturday.”

Big Sis didn’t miss a beat. She sat up straighter, mimicked the woman we’d just seen, and announced with theatrical flourish: “Just putting on the finishing touches! All set up.”

I spit out a laugh. She’s so clever. At home she’s all quick exchanges; “Did you eat?” “No.” “Can I make you something?” “No.” Or, “Hi Mom. Love you, Mom. Bye, Mom.” Like two ships passing in a crowded harbor. But in the car, in moments like this, I get to see her lightness, her timing, her humor.

When I laugh at her, I can feel her cup filling. She doesn’t even have to look straight at me; I see it in the proud little glance she sneaks out of the corner of her eye. She knows she made me laugh. She knows I see her.

After I dropped her off, still giggling at her performance, I told her, “Well, I have to drive by again and feel bad all over.” We said our goodbyes, playful and easy.

Driving past the yard sale that had triggered all our sympathy, I slowed down. Maybe I should go be that one customer, I thought. But then I noticed something new: the woman wasn’t the lonely seller we thought she was. She was handing money to another woman, hidden from our first glance. She wasn’t desperate. She was a paying customer. A genius, really, hosting a yard sale on a Tuesday evening along a busy road.

I can’t wait to tell Big Sis. To laugh again together, to share that revelation while we drive with our eyes forward, comfortable in the silence until something really matters enough to be said.

It’s in those moments, when I see her humor and feel her presence, that I’m reminded we are cut from the same cloth. That even if daily life is crowded with “Did you eat?” and “Love you, bye,” she and I are bound by the same sensitivity, the same way of seeing. And that she has no idea just how much I adore her for it.

It turns out, the real treasure on a Tuesday afternoon wasn’t in the yard sale at all; it was in the quiet, forward-facing way my daughter and I found each other.

🌞 Hanging By a Sunrise