Wednesday.
Two days since Ninuo's bag. It had lived on the hallway table since, unopened, like something I hadn't decided about yet.
Daughter came out of her room a little after nine. Pen still in her hand, eyes gone that flat, tired grey. Stood at the fridge doing nothing, door open, not really looking for anything.
Six hours at that desk. Three weeks out from finals, and it shows in the shoulders before it shows anywhere else.
Said it before I'd thought it through. Come here, sit. Fifteen minutes. Not studying — just sitting.
Expected a no. Got a shrug, which in this house counts as a yes.
One jar of the Spa Day mask out of the bag, the NaPCA Moisture Mist beside it, still cold from the hallway. Did it the way Ninuo had said over coffee, because I'd written nothing down and it had stuck anyway. The creamy mask first, spread on like a thin layer of icing. Then the mist over the top, a light spritz, eyes shut.
Phone out before we started. Bare-faced selfies, both of us, bathroom mirror, that unkind ceiling light. Hers first, then mine. Neither of us said anything about the shadows.
Then the kitchen table. Two chairs, two white faces, a timer on her phone.
Fifteen minutes is longer than it sounds. Nobody talks at first. Then she started laughing — quietly, trying not to crack the cream — at how we must look. Said we looked like a pair of ghosts waiting for the kettle.
Didn't reach for her phone once. Not for the timer either, after the first minute. Sat with her hands in her lap like she'd forgotten she had them.
Timer went. Rinsed off in the bathroom, one after the other — the shared bathroom, so she waited at the door with a towel round her neck, toothbrush in her hand for later.
Second selfie, same spot, same light.
Held the two side by side on the screen at the kitchen table. Hers first. The difference was there, plainly — brighter, smoother round the eyes, the kind of fresh she's not been in weeks. Seventeen does that. Didn't say so out loud in case she took it the wrong way.
Mine, less. But there. Looked more awake, at least, which at my age is a compliment I'll take.
She held the phone out at arm's length, tilted it against the light. Not bad, she said. Which from her is a full review.
Remind me tomorrow, she said, already halfway back to her room. I said she'd have to remind me first.
Sent the pair to Ninuo before I'd talked myself out of it. Just the two selfies and a laughing face, nothing more. Half for fun, half — not sure what the other half was.
Wiped the table, rinsed the two spoons, stood a minute in the quiet kitchen.
Not the glow, really. Not what stayed with me.
Fifteen minutes of my daughter sitting still across from me. I'd asked once, that was all.
Phone buzzed on the bench while I was drying my hands.
Haven't looked yet.