I became a single mother when Lily was just four months old after my husband walked out one morning, leaving nothing but a note that read, “I can’t do this.” He couldn’t handle the responsibility of fatherhood, disappearing from our lives, leaving me with a baby and mounting bills. Those early years were the hardest, forcing me to work double shifts at the diner, sometimes pulling 16-hour days, just to keep the lights on and food in the cupboard. My mother was my constant lifeline, caring for Lily while I was gone. I often cried myself to sleep, wondering if I was doing enough. With patience and strength, we survived those difficult times and eventually began to thrive. Now, Lily is 15, and she is my entire world, the reason for every sacrifice I make.
I want Lily to have all the opportunities I never had, hoping she will attend college and become whoever she wants. But recently, something changed in her behavior that scared me more than I wanted to admit. About two months ago, Lily started acting withdrawn. She used to come home from school chatty and energetic, telling me about her friends and classes, but suddenly she became quiet. She would drop her backpack in the hallway and head straight to her room without saying a word. When I asked her about her day, she would simply shrug and mumble, “It was fine.” The more I pushed her to talk, the more she pulled away, making the tension in our house almost unbearable for us.
Then the strange bathroom ritual began, escalating my concern. Every single day after school, Lily would disappear into our bathroom for nearly an hour. She would meticulously lock the door, and no matter how many times I knocked, she refused to answer. I often stood outside, pressing my ear against the wood, only hearing the faint sound of running water or movement inside. “Lily, honey, are you okay in there?” I would call out, trying to keep my voice calm even as my heart raced with worry. Sometimes, I would hear a muffled, “I’m fine, Mom. Just leave me alone.” When she finally emerged, her eyes were always red and puffy, suggesting she had been crying for a while.
Naturally, my mind drifted to dark places, fearing she might be hurting herself, getting bullied, or even facing an unexpected pregnancy. Every day felt like walking on eggshells, waiting for something terrible to happen. Then, one regular Thursday afternoon, I got off work early because the diner was slow, deciding to surprise Lily. I walked through the front door, and the house was eerily quiet. I climbed the stairs and found her bedroom empty. The muffled sound of sobbing came from the bathroom, and my panic erupted. I knocked urgently, shouting for Lily to open the door, but she refused. I couldn’t bear to stand helpless any longer, so I threw my shoulder against the door, and the old lock gave way easily.
What I saw when the door swung open made me freeze in confusion and fear. Lily was sitting on the cold tile floor, surrounded by old makeup bags, hairbrushes, and scattered bobby pins. A small handheld mirror sat in front of her. Taped to the mirror’s frame was a photograph that immediately caught my eye: a picture of me at 15, smiling, with my hair styled perfectly and my makeup flawless. I recognized the photo from my high school yearbook. “Lily, what is all this?” I whispered, kneeling beside her. That’s when she completely broke down, burying her head in her hands and sobbing. “I’m sorry, Mom,” she cried. “The girls at school, they make fun of me every single day.”
Lily took a shuddering breath and looked up with tear-filled eyes, revealing the painful truth: “They laugh and say I look just like my father, Mom. They say I’m not pretty like you.” My heart shattered instantly. I scooped Lily into my arms, hugging her tightly, and cried with her, assuring her that she was not only beautiful but absolutely perfect exactly as she was, looking like a brave mix of both her parents. From that day on, I made time to talk to Lily about her classes, her friends, and her dreams. A few months later, Lily proudly told me, “I don’t lock the bathroom door anymore. I don’t need to hide to feel pretty. I just needed to know you love me the way I am.”
