Parking Lot

Strength rarely asks permission.

The hot, humid air hit her face before the door even finished opening. Her lip was swollen and aching, but not enough to distract from the heat radiating up from the asphalt like a second sun.

Her mother’s voice filled the air.

Something about consequences.

Responsibility.

She wasn’t listening.

She was picking at her lip.

They reached the car before her mother caught her arm.

Blood.

Fresh stitches had held for barely twenty minutes.

Now they hung in loose threads against her chin.

Her mother froze.

She braced for tears.

Instead, the girl looked…

Relieved.

Her mother’s anger arrived first.

Then stopped.

Made room for something else.

Admiration.

The girl had said she never wanted the stitches.

Now they were gone.

Her mother stood in the parking lot, wondering how long her daughter would remain this stubborn.

She hoped she’d outgrow it.

Then wondered if she should.