I Planned the Family Trip. My Daughter Spent It Showing Me the Back of Her Head.

The Back of Her Head

On the morning we left, I rolled three pairs of socks into bundles and stuffed them into the side pocket of the suitcase. Our daughter’s earphone cord was tangled around the power bank and would not come loose. My husband shouted from the bathroom, asking where his razor was. I said it was in the outer pocket of the toiletry bag. He grunted.

I counted the medicine: motion-sickness pills, stomach medicine, Band-Aids, fever patches. I charged the camera battery three times. The green light was on. I picked a guesthouse with a balcony. The reviews said you could see the whole sea in the evening. I imagined the three of us standing at the railing, the sunset behind us. I even brought the shutter release cable.

On the high-speed train, our daughter and her father sat in one row. I sat on the other side of the aisle. She held his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. I handed her water. She shook her head. He took it, unscrewed the cap, took a sip himself, and handed it to her. She drank. I pulled my hand back and put it on my lap. Outside, the field ridges fell away one by one.

At the guesthouse, she kicked off her shoes and threw herself onto the bed. Her father went out to the balcony to look at the sea. I opened the suitcase, took out her sun shirt, and hung it in the wardrobe. She said, “Mom, don’t go through my bag.” I said, “Your sun shirt.” She said, “Not wearing it.” I paused with the hanger, then hung it back. The door was open. The sea breeze billowed the curtain.

In the afternoon we went to the beach. She held her father’s hand and stepped through the surf. I followed behind, carrying both their flip-flops. Her shoelace came undone. I crouched down. She stepped back. “I’ll do it myself.” Her father had already crouched, looped the lace twice around his fingers, and tied a knot. She looked down at the top of his head and laughed. My hand stopped in midair, sand still on my fingers. I brushed it off and stood up. Nearby, someone was selling coconuts. The knife came down. The shell split. Juice splashed onto the ground.

Dinner was in a fishing village. I picked up a piece of fish for her. The lazy Susan turned, and she turned it away just then. My chopsticks stopped at the edge of the plate. Her father peeled shrimp and put them into her bowl one by one. She dipped them in soy sauce, bit off the tails, and said, “Dad, you peel so fast.” I looked down and ate rice. Grains stuck to my chopsticks. I wiped them off with a napkin. An opened bottle of coconut juice sat on the table. No one poured it. I picked it up and poured myself half a cup.

The next noon, the sea breeze blew her hair across her face. I raised my hand to brush it aside. Her father called from below the steps, “Look over there, seagulls.” She turned and ran. My fingers touched the ends of her hair, then dropped. She ran down the steps, her flip-flops slapping the stone, pat-pat. I stood there, hands in my pockets, and felt the guesthouse key card. Its edges were worn white.

I suggested a family photo. She said, “No.” I said, “Just one.” She said, “You’re so annoying.” Her father said, “Forget it. Don’t force her.” I said, “I’m forcing her?” He took the camera and said, “I’ll take it.” He took pictures of her eating ice cream, of her with an orange cat, of her back. Not of me.

On the way back to the hotel, she walked in front, her father in the middle, me behind. The streetlights came on one by one. Her shadow stretched long. I wanted to step on her shadow, the way I did when she was little. She glanced back at me, then turned away.

That night she showered. The water stopped. I sat on the balcony and heard her father ask through the room, “What do you want to eat tomorrow?” She said, “Whatever.” He said, “Then listen to Mom.” She said nothing. I opened the photo album on my phone and deleted a few blurry pictures. The wind blew the towel hanging on the railing to the floor. I picked it up and draped it back.

On the return high-speed train, she fell asleep against her father. He put his jacket over her and gestured “shh” at me. I nodded and looked out the window. The field ridges were still field ridges, only the direction was reversed. When we arrived, she rubbed her eyes and got off. Her father carried the suitcase. I carried my own bag and the bag of snacks we had not finished.

After we got home, I downloaded the photos from the camera. In the folder, our daughter was smiling. Her father was smiling. The sea was blue. I flipped through them one by one. Not one had all three of us. The last one was taken by her father: the back of our daughter’s head, her hair blown into a tangle. I closed the folder.

The parents’ group chat was flashing. The teacher said we had to hand in the reply slip next Monday. I forwarded the message to my husband and added, “You handle it.” He replied, “Oh.” I put the phone face down on the table. Three bowls were soaking in the kitchen sink. I washed two. The third was our daughter’s, with curry on it. I rinsed it and put it away.

The next morning, I did not wake her. The alarm rang three times. She rushed out of her room, her socks on wrong, one blue, one gray. I sat at the table peeling an egg. She asked, “Where’s my uniform?” I said, “Second shelf of the wardrobe.” She opened the door, rummaged twice, and found it. As she put on her shoes, I said, “Curry tonight.” She said, “Okay.” The door closed.

I put the eggshells in the trash and wiped the table. At the corner was a box of stomach medicine. I picked it up and put it in a drawer she could not reach. Her stomach was bad, but today she had not complained.

The pothos on the balcony needed water. I filled a cup and poured slowly. Water seeped from the bottom of the pot and dripped onto the floor. I wiped it with a rag. On the third wipe, my phone rang. My husband asked in the group, “What time is the parent-teacher meeting?” I replied, “Ask the teacher.” Then I wrung out the rag and draped it over the edge of the sink.

Sunlight fell on the empty camera. The lens cap was off. I picked it up and pressed the shutter. No battery. The screen was black. I put it back in the drawer and pushed it shut.