Husband and I had a discussion about our daughter’s state of mind, our daughter’s state of misery.
We asked whether she would like to come to live with us for a while.
Black plastic bags all packed, I brought Laura home again. I emptied a wardrobe for her stuff to go in.
Her bedroom welcomed her. Laura went to work, came home, had supper with us. Weekends, we went for walks, bought goodies to eat, watched movies. She started to bloom again. Six weeks went by, not a problem in sight.
‘I’m going out Saturday night,’ Laura said.
Good for her, mix with people her own age. ‘Don’t drink too much, and don’t be in late,’ I said. I prayed.
‘Think I’ll go to my own house, after my night out.’
‘Okay.’ On one level I was glad for that. For many years, with two daughters out in the night, I would listen for taxi doors to slam, a key to slide in the lock, footsteps to hammer up the stairs, before I allowed myself to fall asleep.
Laura rang the next day at lunch time, Husband answered the phone then held it out to me, ‘She doesn’t sound right,’ he said.
I took the phone, ‘You okay?’ I asked.
The line went click.