r boyfriend and her future。 She’d cried a lot and rebuffed all my attempts to fort her。
“I’m twenty； almost；” she’d told me so often that my teeth ached。 “I am an adult！”
Each time I silently replied； No； you are not。 You still watch cartoons； and expect me to do your laundry； and ask me to pick up toothpaste for you when I go to the grocery store。
Now she is gone； off to be an adult far away from me。 I’m glad she’s gone。 She’s impossible and cranky2 and difficult to get along with。 I am sick of fighting； tired of her tantrums。
Her father is angry。 He watches television and will not speak。 He helped her with the down payment on the truck and got her a good deal。 He slipped her cash before she left。 I want to say。 If only you hadn’t helped her buy the truck； she would still be here。 It’s a lie。
“I am never ing back；” she told me。 “I’m a grown…up now。 I want to live。”
What had she been doing for twenty years？ Existing in suspended animation？
The cat is upset by the suitcases and boxes and unspoken recriminations。 She’s hiding。 For a moment I fear she’s sneaked into the truck； gone off with my daughter on an adventure from which I am forbidden。
She left a mess。 Her bathroom is an embarrassment of damp towels； out…of…date cosmetics； hair in the sink； and nearly empty shampoo3 bottles。 Ha！ Some grown…up！ She can’t even pick up after herself。 I’ll show her。 She doesn’t want to live with me； doesn’t want to be my baby girl anymore； fine。 I can be even stinkier than she is。
I bring a box of big black garbage bags upstairs。 Eye shadow； face cream； glitter nail polish and astringent—into the trash。 I dump drawers and sweep shelves clear of gels； mousse； body wash； and perfume。 I refuse to consider what