Now I Say it First

I said “Goodnight, I love you” to my Mom tonight as we hung up the phone. 

We say it all the time, but tonight it’s beauty caught me.

How lucky am I to exchange loving salutations after all these years? 

After the many teenage nights I spent avoiding, ignoring, and eye-rolling.

I can still see the green canopy of trees across the street, the zig-zagged power lines overhead, often decorated with dangling sneakers. I grew up with a streetlight outside my house, and more lining the relatively quiet avenue. Darkness was always tinged with yellow—the warm glow of Manhattan keeping us alight. My home smelled the same (like apple cider and fresh flowers), looked the same (for the most part), and always gave me the same warm welcome. Even after my years in Florida. Even after Harlem.

Oh, the fright she had when I told her I was moving there. You’d think I was electing to be homeless. Or transferring to Rikers. I didn’t understand. I saw another thing for us to fight over. She saw another thing to lose me to. But somehow, through the cold shoulders and miscommunications, we crossed the rift. We hugged as I settled into 492 Manhattan Avenue.

I always say “I love you” as I end phone calls with her. It’s our ritual. A quiet reminder that we are still mother and daughter. She still loves my ten fingers and toes. And I still find comfort in the shoulder of her sweater. Late-night cups of tea and running mascara line the pockets of those teenage years. I still pine for those moments. I still need her softness. I had a prickly exterior, but inside, I was water. She knew that. And she held me—even though it must have hurt. I could never understand it, until now.

Now I look into Charlotte’s eyes and realize my mistake.

I thought, as a daughter, I had expectations to live up to. That it was my job to make her proud. To prove that all her work, her stress, her sacrifice, was worthwhile. That I was worthwhile.

But I was wrong.

Her eyes never searched for my achievements. Her arms never stretched for pride alone. She watched to see me. As I am. As I moved through the world. As I lived and breathed. She watched for my happiness.

When I ached, she ached. When I lost, she lost. She looked at me in awe that I was here at all—and that she got to be part of it.

I look at Charlotte and I am so grateful for the chance to be her mother. To hold her. To guide her. To keep the light on for her.

It was never about the outcome. Never about the adult on the other side. It was about the joy of growing up together.