Our daughter Maya turned 16 that summer.
She spent more time talking to her friends than to us, rolled her eyes whenever I asked about her day, and insisted I worried too much.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
I did worry too much.
When she was little, she’d slip her tiny hand into mine without thinking.
By 16, she’d mastered the teenage version of affection.
A quick hug before school.
A distracted, « Love you, Mom, » while already halfway out the door.