Will You Wait For Me?

“Will you wait for me?”

The words echoed in my head, bouncing off the bathroom tiles as I stared into the mirror, searching for the girl I used to be. I tried to tilt my head, just so, the way I did in my twenties, hoping the right angle would erase the tired shadows pooling under my eyes and the downward pull at the corners of my mouth. Nothing worked. I pressed my fingers to my cheeks, pulling the skin taut. For a second, I was almost her again—the girl who believed in forever, in love that didn’t fade, in promises that didn’t break. But my hands dropped, and reality rushed in, cold and unkind.

I heard the front door slam, and the sound snapped me out of my trance. “Emily!” my mother’s voice, sharp as ever, cut through the silence. “You’re going to be late—again.”

I took a deep breath, smoothed my skirt, and walked down the hallway, counting the faded family photos on the wall. My mother, Ruth, was already pouring herself a second cup of coffee, her lips pursed in that way that said she was holding back a lecture. She glanced at me, her eyes tracing the lines on my face, and I braced myself for the daily critique.

“You know, you really should try to get more sleep. And maybe lay off the red wine. It’s no good for your skin after forty.”

I almost laughed. After everything I’d been through, she still thought a facial mask could fix what was broken. “Thanks for the tip, Mom. I’ll add it to the list.”

She sighed, her disappointment palpable. “I just want you to take care of yourself.”

But she didn’t know how hard it was to care when you felt invisible, when the world spun on without you. I wanted to scream, to ask her if she ever felt like a ghost in her own life. Instead, I grabbed my keys and headed out to the car, the late autumn wind biting through my jacket. As I drove to work, the question played on repeat: Will you wait for me? Will anything?

My daughter, Kate, hadn’t spoken to me in three months. Not since the fight. Not since I found out she was moving in with her boyfriend—a man I’d never met. She’d thrown my own words back at me—”You always said you wanted me to be independent. Well, here I am.” I’d stood in the driveway, watching her pack up her battered Corolla, my heart pounding in my chest. She hadn’t looked back.

I used to think love meant holding on, but maybe it’s about letting go. Still, every night, I left my phone beside the bed, volume turned up, hoping she’d call. I told myself she just needed time. Time to forgive me for being too protective, too judgmental, too much like my own mother.

At work, the office buzzed with the hum of computers and the scent of burnt coffee. I sat at my desk, pretending to focus on spreadsheets, but my mind wandered. I remembered the day I met Kate’s father—at a college party, back when I believed anything was possible. I remembered the promise he made, whispering: “Will you wait for me?” He’d gone to California for a job, and I’d waited. He never really came back. Oh, he showed up for birthdays, sent postcards from San Diego, but the man I loved was gone.

Now it was me, still waiting. For something. For someone.

“Em, you okay?” It was Mike from HR, leaning against my cubicle wall. His eyes were kind, his smile genuine. We’d had lunch a few times, shared stories about our kids, laughed about office politics. Sometimes, I wondered if he saw me. Really saw me.

“Yeah, just tired,” I lied, forcing a smile.

He hesitated. “If you ever want to talk… or grab a beer, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Mike. I might take you up on that.”

The day dragged. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was a series of closed doors and missed chances. At five, I packed up and drove home, the sunset bleeding pink and orange across the sky. I remembered the promise I’d made to myself: that this year, I’d do something just for me. But what? Take a class? Travel? Start over?

When I got home, Mom was watching Wheel of Fortune, knitting needles clicking. “Did you hear from Kate?”

“No, not today.”

She nodded, not meeting my eyes. “When you were her age, you did the same thing. Left without saying goodbye.”

I flinched. “That’s not fair, Mom. You know why I left.”

She put down her knitting. “I do. And I forgave you.”

The words hung between us. For a moment, I saw her not as my critic, but as a woman who had her own regrets, her own lost time.

That night, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat on the porch, wrapped in an old quilt. The air was thick with the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. I thought about calling Kate, about saying I was sorry. But sorry for what? For loving her too much? For not loving her the right way?

The phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number: “Hey, Mom. Can we talk?”

My heart leapt. I typed back, hands shaking: “Always.”

She called. Her voice was small, uncertain. “I… I miss you.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart.”

“I think I made a mistake. I’m not sure I want to move in with him.”

I bit my lip, swallowing the urge to say I told you so. “You can always come home. Or we can meet for coffee. Whatever you need.”

She sniffled. “Thanks, Mom. I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

After we hung up, I sat in the dark, tears slipping down my cheeks. Maybe love wasn’t about waiting—it was about being there, no matter how many times your heart broke.

The next morning, I looked in the mirror again. The woman staring back at me was older, yes. But she was still here. Still fighting. Still loving, even when it hurt.

I wonder: How many of us are waiting for forgiveness—from others, from ourselves? And if we finally let go, what might we find on the other side?