Chrysalis by Anna Metcalfe

Author:Anna Metcalfe [Metcalfe, Anna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2023-04-11T00:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

Before she left for university, I was fearful while she was calm. I thought it would be difficult for her to make friends, or that she would make bad ones as she had in school. I didn’t know how her body would respond to the change, if the shaking would return more forcefully and affect her ability to study, to make a new home. I slept poorly and hardly ate, but I recognized my nervous state as something more complex than anxiety or dread. It was cut with excitement because part of my work as a mother was done. We were entering a new phase, one in which I expected great things for myself.

When I asked my daughter how she felt, she only said: “Fine. It’ll be harder on you.”

On moving day, we battled with three suitcases, the double-layered thermal duvet, the endless blankets I’d bought for her. We dragged them through a crowded university car park and up three flights of stairs. When we arrived at her room, there was music playing next door, something burning in the kitchen. I felt ancient. My arms ached. We made two more trips. By the time the car was fully unloaded, we were sweaty and breathless. Neither of us felt like pulling the other into a hug. I wanted to say something significant; when I’d rehearsed this moment, it had felt profound. But she was glancing over my shoulder, watching other people’s parents walk by. She put a hand on my shoulder, as though to silence me. I thought she might be the one to speak—to say thank you for everything, or you’ve given me everything I need—but she stayed quiet. I kissed her cheek and then her forehead. When I pulled away, her cheeks were red. Her hands were shaking. She turned away to look out of the window and sighed.

“What is it?” I said.

“Don’t be emotional.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she said.

“Have I embarrassed you?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

I waited a moment.

“It’s nothing. Let’s not drag it out.”

“All right,” I said, but I couldn’t help myself: “What have I done?”

“I don’t want to talk about it now.”

“Then when?”

She took a few deep breaths. “Look,” she said. “Don’t call me. If you’re lonely, I don’t want you to be calling me all the time.”

“I’ll be fine,” I told her. “I’m used to being on my own.”

“You’re lying,” she said.

I laughed.

Her face hardened. “Could you just go? Please, just go.”

I waited another moment, then turned and walked back down the hall.

I had been wrong about her—she settled in wonderfully, she made plenty of friends—but she was right about me.

There was a brief period of elation, where I ate sugared cereal for dinner and listened to loud music late at night. I drank whole bottles of wine and had midnight snacks on the living room floor—hazelnut yogurts, caramel chocolates, peppered crackers, soft cheese. I tried to remember what life had been like before I was a mother. There had been friends. I’d lived in the city.

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