That night, Lily sat next to me on the couch in sweatpants and an old hoodie. Her head rested against my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she whispered.
I turned to her. “For what?”
“In the worst-case scenario, there’s always next year.”
“For not telling you sooner,” she muttered. “I thought—”
I took her hand. “No. You do not carry this.”
She started crying again, harder this time. “Please let me say this. I love Mike. I trusted him. I thought he was genuinely trying to help me, and it did help at first. I felt like I was floating into each jump… it was amazing. And then I thought that if I stopped, I’d get heavier and skate worse and disappoint everyone.”
“Everyone who?” I asked quietly.
“I felt like I was floating into each jump… it was amazing.”
She wiped at her face. “Him. Me. I don’t know.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Listen to me. There is no medal, no competition, no routine on earth worth your body. Or your mind. Or you.”
She nodded against my shoulder.
For weeks, I had let myself be managed, redirected, and dismissed. Made to feel dramatic for noticing what was right in front of me. And for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t asking myself whether I was too much.
I was her mother. That was exactly enough.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t asking myself whether I was too much.
