I just couldn't wait to hear all the stories she'd bring home.
"Is that something I should be concerned about?"
"You promise you'll text me?" I asked.
"Every day."
"Every other day is fine."
"Mom," Kathleen hopped off the counter and came to stand next to me, close enough that I could smell her strawberry shampoo. "I'll be okay."
"I know you will."
"Then why are you refolding the same shirt?"
"I know you will."
I looked down. I was, in fact, refolding the same shirt.
"Because I'm your mother, and that's my job."
She laughed, that big open laugh that used to fill the whole apartment when she was five, and leaned her head against my shoulder for one second before pulling away.
"That's my job."
"Can I bring the sketchbook?" my daughter asked.
"Of course you can."
She grinned and disappeared down the hall to pack it.
I sat there with a hoodie in my lap, wondering how a person could grow from a whole baby into someone who thought about saving seats for lonely friends.
