I’m Ingrid, and my world pretty much revolves around my daughter, Anna. I raised her by myself, putting in double shifts at a diner, where I still work, but as a manager now.
My pregnancy wasn’t planned, and when it became clear that I would be raising her as a single mother, I knew one thing: she would never miss out or want for anything.
I succeeded at that, but I did even more. Anna and I formed a bond even closer than some mothers and daughters.
I like to think of us as Lorelai and Rory from “Gilmore Girls,” although there was never really “man drama.”
Her one relationship was with Jason, and I loved him.
He was caring, sweet, and funny. Soon, they got married and moved away to the city.
It was 3 hours away, which wasn’t the best for me, but this was her life.
At first, we talked every day, and I gushed about her exciting new adventures. But around two years later, our conversations got shorter and different.
She’d sound distant, say she was “busy,” and I could tell there was something she wasn’t telling me.
It hurt, and I kept overthinking it.
Was this normal, or was I losing her?
Other moms may have been fine and moved on, but I couldn’t take it after a while. I decided I was going to visit her and find out what was really going on.
So, two weeks ago, I got up early, baked her favorite cinnamon buns, and took a train to her city. I imagined her face lighting up when she saw me.
But when I got to her apartment and knocked, what happened next was the last thing I expected.
The door cracked open, and Anna peered out.
Her eyes went wide, but it wasn’t with happiness. She slipped out as if she were hiding something behind her and closed the door.
“Mom?
What are you doing here?” she whispered, but her tone was almost… mad?
I held up the basket of buns and smiled. “I wanted to see you!
I brought your favorite buns,” I said with too much cheer.
Her eyes darted nervously down the hallway.
“You can’t be here,” she said, shaking her head. “Mom, just… go.”
My heart dropped, but I tried to stay calm. “Anna, what’s going on?
Is Jason—”
“Mom, I said GO!” she snapped, her voice changing from a whisper to sharp demand, and for the first time, she looked me in the eyes.
I could see something there. Fear?
But before I could respond, she turned and slammed the door.
I stood there, frozen, clutching the basket. My daughter had just shut her door in my face.
All manner of terrible things went through my mind.
Was it Jason? Was their relationship not as I thought?
Was my daughter afraid of her husband? God, how could I have missed such a thing?
Well… not anymore!
I wasn’t leaving, but I knew knocking again would be fruitless.
So, I moved away from her door and tucked myself around the corner of the hallway, out of sight.
Hours passed, and I couldn’t think of anything but what my daughter might be going through at the hands of her husband. Why hadn’t she said anything?
She had been so afraid to even open the door.
Wait, was he inside, or was he out? Not knowing was torture.
After what felt like an eternity, her door finally creaked open, and I shrank back into my little corner.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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