“They Don’t Need Me the Same, But They Still Need Me”

They slam the door

before I finish my sentence.

And I let them.

Not because I’m weak,

but because I remember

being sixteen

and aching for silence

I could control.

They used to climb into my lap.

Now they climb into themselves,

taller each morning,

heavier with questions

they don’t always ask out loud.

I’ve become

the background hum—

comforting, consistent,

easy to forget

until the lights go out.

They text in fragments,

laugh in locked rooms,

speak in codes

that don’t include me.

And still—

they leave a plate in the sink.

Still ask

if we have milk.

Still sit close

on the couch

when something breaks

inside them.

Parenting a teenager

is learning to stay

near,

not in.

To knock,

not barge.

To listen,

not fix.

To say,

“I’m here,”

and mean it

even when you’re not invited in.

They don’t need my hands

like they used to.

But they still need

my presence,

my pause,

my patience.

They still need

my love

that doesn’t ask them

to shrink.

This isn’t distance.

It’s becoming.

And I am learning

to love the outline

of who they’re becoming

without rushing the shape.