"Kath. Talk to me. Did something happen at camp?"
She shrugged.
"I got into an argument with a friend. Over a photo. It's stupid."
"A photo of what?"
"It doesn't matter, Mom."
"A photo of what?"
I assumed she meant Brenda.
I remember thinking, of course, 13-year-old best friends imploding over nothing. Classic.
"You want me to call Brenda's mom? We could..."
"Mom!"
Her voice was sharp for half a second, then soft again.
"It's fine. Really. I just need a couple of days."
I assumed she meant Brenda.
***
Days turned into a week. The sketchbook didn't move.
I watched Kathleen from the doorway one night, curled on her side, with her phone facedown on the pillow beside her. She wasn't crying. My kid, my chatterbox, had gone somewhere I couldn't follow, and every time I tried, she smiled tightly and closed the door.
I kept telling myself to give her space. She's a teenager. She's allowed to have friend drama without her mother orchestrating a peace summit.
