When Koa noticed her fifteen-year-old daughter disappearing into the bathroom every single afternoon, locking the door and coming out with red, puffy eyes, she was terrified. But when the truth finally came out, it broke her heart in a way she never saw coming. What on earth was Skye hiding behind that locked door?
I became a single mom when Skye was only four months old. My husband walked out one morning and left a note on the kitchen counter that just said, “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”
Truth is, he couldn’t handle being a dad.
The sleepless nights, the nonstop crying, the weight of another human life depending on him, it was all too much.
He packed his bags and vanished, leaving me alone with a tiny baby and a pile of bills I had no clue how to pay.
Those early years were the toughest of my life. I pulled double shifts at the diner, sometimes sixteen-hour days, just to keep the lights on and formula on the table.
My mom was my lifesaver back then. She watched Skye while I worked, rocking her when she cried, feeding her when I couldn’t be there. I’d drag myself home exhausted, feet killing me, uniform smelling like grease and burnt coffee, but the second I saw Skye’s little face, everything else disappeared.
Honestly, money was tight. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I was enough, if I was being a good mom. There were days I had to pick between the electric bill and new shoes because she’d outgrown another pair.
But we made it through. With grit, love, and a whole lot of stubbornness, we survived, and little by little we even started doing okay.
Now Skye is fifteen, and she’s my whole world. Every shift I work, every sacrifice I make, it’s all for her. I still sling coffee and eggs to truckers and road-trip families, but it’s worth it because I’m building something better for my girl.
I want her to have every chance I never got: college, travel, the freedom to become whoever she wants to be.
But a couple months ago, something changed. Skye started pulling away, and it scared me more than I wanted to admit.
She used to come home from school full of stories about her day and her friends. Suddenly she went quiet. She’d walk in, drop her backpack, and head straight to her room without a word.
When I’d ask how school was, she’d just shrug and mumble, “It was fine.”
Then the bathroom thing started.
Every single day after school, Skye would disappear into the bathroom for almost an hour. She’d lock the door, and no matter how many times I knocked, she wouldn’t answer. I’d stand there with my ear against the door, hearing running water and little movements inside.
“Skye, honey, you okay in there?” I’d call, trying to keep my voice calm even though my heart was pounding.
Silence.
“Skye, please talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
More silence, or sometimes a tiny, muffled, “I’m fine, Mom. Just leave me alone.”
When she finally came out, her eyes were always red and swollen, her face flushed, and she’d avoid looking at me as she hurried past and shut herself in her bedroom again.
I tried everything to get her to open up.
I cooked her favorite meals, hoping she’d talk over dinner. I suggested movie nights like we used to have when she was little. I even took a rare day off work just to spend time with her. Nothing worked.
The more I pushed, the more she shut down.
Of course my mind went straight to the worst places.
Was she hurting herself? Getting bullied? God forbid, pregnant? Was that why she was hiding in the bathroom every day?
The house felt like we were walking on eggshells. I barely slept anymore, lying awake wondering what was happening to my little girl and why she wouldn’t let me help.
Then one ordinary Thursday, I finally found out.
The diner was dead, so my manager told me I could head home early. I grabbed my purse, clocked out, and drove home fast, hoping maybe I could surprise Skye and we could finally talk.
But when I walked in, the house was dead quiet. Usually I could hear music from her room or her moving around upstairs. Today, nothing.
“Skye? Honey, I’m home early!”
No answer.
I figured she was in her room, maybe napping or doing homework with headphones on. I went upstairs, pushed open her bedroom door, expecting to see her curled up on the bed with a book or her phone. The bed was empty, covers still neat from this morning.
That’s when I heard it, soft, muffled crying coming from the bathroom. I walked over and froze.
She was sobbing behind that locked door.
Panic shot through me. My hands shook as I banged on the door.
“Skye! Skye, open this door right now!”
The crying stopped dead.
“Mom?” Her voice was small, shaky, startled.
“Yes, it’s me. Open the door, baby. Please.”
“I can’t. Just go away.”
“Skye, I’m not leaving. Open the door or I’m coming in.”
When she didn’t answer, something in me snapped. I couldn’t stand outside helpless one more second while my daughter fell apart alone. I threw my shoulder against the door; the old lock gave way and the door flew open.
What I saw stopped me cold.
Skye was sitting on the bathroom floor surrounded by my old makeup bags from years ago. Hairbrushes, bobby pins, hair ties scattered everywhere like she’d been studying them. A little hand mirror sat in front of her, and taped to the frame was a photo that made my stomach drop.
It was me at fifteen, smiling big for my sophomore yearbook picture, hair perfect, makeup on point.
“Skye, what is all this?” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside her.
That’s when she completely lost it.
Tears poured down her face as she buried her head in her hands, shoulders shaking with deep, painful sobs.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry,” she cried.
“Sorry for what, baby? Talk to me. Please.”
She took a shaky breath and looked up at me with eyes full of hurt that broke my heart.
“The girls at school pick on me every single day,” she started, voice cracking. “They laugh at my frizzy hair because it won’t stay straight like theirs. They point at my acne and whisper when I walk by. Beau and Zeld are the worst. They call me names, make fun of my clothes because they know I can’t afford the brands they wear.”
I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.
“But the worst part,” Skye went on, wiping her nose, “was last week. Beau found your old yearbook photo online and showed everybody in the cafeteria. She passed her phone around saying I was nothing like the mom I used to be. She called me the cheap knock-off version of you.”
Those words hit me like a punch.
“So I’ve been hiding in here every day,” Skye said, gesturing at the makeup and brushes. “Trying to learn how to do my hair and makeup like you did. Trying to make myself look pretty enough. I watch tutorials and practice over and over, but I can’t get it right.”
Then she said the thing that absolutely shattered me.
“I don’t want to embarrass you, Mom. I don’t want people to look at me and feel sorry for you because your daughter isn’t pretty like you used to be. Everyone talks about how gorgeous you were in high school, and then they look at me like I’m some kind of disappointment.”
Tears started rolling down my own face.
“Oh, Skye. Baby, no.” I cupped her face gently and made her look at me. “Listen to me. That girl in the picture? She was miserable. Those perfect smiles were fake. I spent hours every morning trying to look good enough because I thought that’s what mattered. I thought if I was pretty enough, people would finally like me.”
She just stared, eyes wide.
“But I was so insecure, Skye. Terrified every day that someone would see past the makeup and realize I was just as scared as everyone else. Being pretty never made me happy. You know what does? You. Exactly the way you are right now.”
“But I’m not pretty like you,” she whispered.
“You’re a million times better than pretty. You’re kind, smart, funny, creative, and you have the biggest heart I’ve ever known. And I’ve been so busy working and stressing about money that I missed how much you were hurting. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
I pulled her into my arms and we both cried, sitting there on the cold bathroom floor for what felt like forever.
Eventually the tears slowed and we started talking, really talking.
I told her about my own insecurities in high school, the days I felt ugly and worthless. She told me more about Beau and Zeld and how small they made her feel.
“Things are going to be different from now on,” I promised. “Every Wednesday I’m coming home early and we’re having beauty nights, not because you need to change, but because if you want to play with makeup and hair, we’ll do it together. For fun. Not because anyone says you have to.”
A tiny smile broke through her tears. “Really?”
“Really. And if those girls say one more cruel word, you come straight to me. We’ll talk to the counselor, the teachers, whoever we need to. You don’t fight this alone anymore.”
She nodded and rested her head on my shoulder.
The weeks after that brought slow, beautiful changes. I kept my promise, every Wednesday we sat in front of the mirror trying new looks and laughing at our disasters.
Some nights we didn’t even touch makeup. We just talked, braided each other’s hair, and ate ice cream straight from the carton.
I watched Skye start to carry herself taller. She stopped racing to her room after school and began telling me about her day again, her friends, her dreams.
A few months later, while I was making dinner, Skye said something that made my heart burst.
“Mom, I don’t lock the bathroom door anymore. I don’t need to hide to feel okay about myself. I just needed to know you love me exactly like I am.”
I dropped the spatula, pulled her into the biggest hug, tears streaming down my face again, but this time they were the happiest tears I’d ever cried.
She was perfect. Exactly as she was meant to be.