Kathleen was perched on the kitchen counter behind me, swinging her feet against the cabinet the way I'd asked her not to a thousand times. Her sketchbook, the beat-up hardcover she'd loved for years and carried everywhere, was open on her lap.
I'd asked her not to a thousand times.
***
"I am listening. You said archery, canoeing, and the night hike."
"And the talent show. And Brenda says there's a real campfire, not the fake gas kind."
Brenda was one of Kathleen's friends.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was glowing, the way teenagers do when something they've circled on the calendar is finally close enough to touch.
She was glowing.
"Two weeks is a long time, Kath."
"Two weeks is nothing. You always say that when you go on work trips," she challenged me.
"That's different."
"Well, I'll be back in no time, just like you." My daughter rolled her eyes at me with love. "Mom. It's a camp. Everyone's going."
