I stood in misting rain, like a cucumber in the produce section at the grocery store, lightly coated on regular intervals by a nearly imperceptible spray.
The moisture was just enough to make my hair frizz and give my shirt that ‘I took this out of the dryer too soon’ feeling. Perfect. It was match for my mood as I toured Mount Vernon, the estate of my favorite founding father, George Washington.
I’d driven the 45 minutes out here in search of a reset. I needed something to distract myself from Kendall’s days-away departure for her study abroad semester in Portugal. I needed to get out of my head.
A nervous snowy-haired docent leaned in apologetically as she scanned the QR code on my ticket.
“Welcome to Mount Vernon! Just so you know, we are in the midst of a renovation project. We are restoring Washington’s home to its former glory, inside and out, so we can continue to host the one million visitors we get every year. Visitors cannot enter the house, but you are welcome to see the exhibits in the museum and throughout the grounds.”
“Okay, thanks.” I replied, not thinking much of it. I wasn’t there to take in Washington’s hand-chosen paint colors or admire the quill he used to sign his letters. I just wanted to walk around and shake off this funk that had been stalking me for days.
So I steered toward the gardens, which were flowering and vibrant in the misting rain. I walked down to the river. I peered into the pastures. I meandered.
And then I crested a hill, and the estate came into view. It looked… a bit worse for wear. Scaffolding covered the main house like an ill-fitting cage. The front door was hanging open, blocked to visitors by orange construction netting. Inside they were tearing out the floors.
I took in Mount Vernon’s hodgepodge of lush life on the one hand (top-heavy flowers, fluffy sheep, fat pigs wallowing in giant puddles in their sty) and dilapidated, down-on-its-luck deterioration on the other.
Half-in, half-out. Stuck in a tweeny time before it comes back to itself.
Me too.
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I have experience, lots of it, riding the sine curve that is life.
I know that the troughs bottom out, and the trajectory eventually arcs upward again. Not due to wishful thinking or even the passage of time. But due to adjusting, adapting, processing the blank space. Actively reconstructing life.
But the thing is, I wasn’t in the upswing yet, the part when I get to do what I do best — adapt. I was in the drop.
Because my daughter Kendall was still at home, leaving trails of flip-flops and half-eaten avocados wherever she went. I couldn't start rebuilding until she left.
We’d had the most remarkable summer. We’d laughed together over my son, Connor’s crazy morning hairdos, bitten our nails together as we checked the mail daily for Kendall’s passport with her precious Portugal visa pasted inside, created a rhythm together of duties that each fit our skills. We’d supported each other through internship frustrations (Kendall) and job searches (Connor). We talked and talked and talked and talked. Oh, and laughed a hell of a lot too.
But in this final week, instead of spending every hour we had enjoying each other, all I could see was seat 31F on that 10pm Saturday United Airlines flight to Lisbon.
I wanted to get her the hell on it so I could get this over with.
The Tuesday before, I was staring down at her dirty frying pan and egg-covered spatula in the sink, when I started to tear up. So soon, too soon, I’d no longer be rinsing her abandoned dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. But at least that meant I could also stop being so sad and finally get on with it…
I stopped, dropped the sponge, wiped my hands, and said out loud to no one “This isn’t working.”
Cue coping methods montage.
I cleaned out the Deagle ‘Health Center’ — a plastic bin in the mudroom loaded with Bandaids, cough drops, Sudafed, Advil — like it was a race to the bottom. I threw out the fluorescent packs of expired Dayquil, Nightquil, and a random nasal spray I’d picked up in New Zealand in 2024. Then, I purged my bathroom vanity of long ignored lipsticks, expired sunscreens, perfume I had used to freshen up after red-eye flights for work. Next, I hit Target, prowling the aisles with no real purpose except motion, motion, motion. I came home with pastel post-it notes I didn't need and a journal for my next book, desperate to be thinking about the future rather than living in the present.
These moves helped. They tided me over for a bit. But I was still antsy. I wanted a bigger change of pace, of environment.
So I took myself off to Mount Vernon, and got a visual manifestation of the messy middle that I was trying to escape.
Thanks universe.
As I headed out of the estate a few hours later, the same sheepish docent reminded me my ticket was good for the remainder of 2025. “Well… but how long is the renovation going to take?” I asked.
“We sure hope it will be done in early 2026. Parts of it will be done sooner. It depends on the weather and other factors we can’t control.”
I feel you, lady.
When I arrived at my car, I caught my own reflection staring back at me through the droplets on my driver's side window. I reached down and grabbed the bottom of my shirt, pulling hard to smooth out the zigzag wrinkles my cross-body bag had pressed into the soggy fabric. My frizzy hair winged out from the sides of my temples.
Here I was, a grown woman, moping around George Washington's construction zone in the rain because I didn't want to feel sad about my daughter's amazing adventure. I burst out laughing.
Come on, Deagle!
Yeah, it sucks.
Also, it's not for much longer.
Double also, you are lucky to have this feeling at all.
What a mess!
What a perfectly normal mess.
Driving home, I remembered my first international trip.
It was 1989, from Pittsburgh to London. I dragged my suitcase through the bowels of Heathrow to the Tube. Then I settled into an ancient dorm by Waterloo station, and proceeded to have a life-transforming five months abroad.
This kind of international semester has become a family tradition: Mike went to Cape Town. Connor went to New Zealand. This was Kendall's turn.
So what the hell was I doing acting like this was a funeral?? There would be time for grieving later! Right now, I needed to get my ass in gear and help Kendall prepare for four months on a different continent! So over the next week, I ran errands to CVS and Sephora to pick up last minute items. I cajoled the pharmacist to fill prescriptions. I did the returns on shoes, shirts, makeup that didn’t work out. A trough in my sine curve may be approaching, but Kendall was on an upward arc. Brace for impact, Europe, a Deagle is landing!
And then the calendar flipped to departure day.
Allergic to packing early, Kendall managed to get it all done in a day. Bags zipped and ready, we had our final meal together at the kitchen island — Uncle Julio’s quesadillas and tortilla chips. We walked several laps around the driveway as the setting sun’s rays cut through the trees to scuff up the bottom of Kendall's new sneaks.
Then, time was up.
Connor carried Kendall’s bags to my car.
“Can I drive?” Connor asked.
Kendall gave him the stink eye “You know she’s stressed and needs to feel in control right now, dude! No!”
I laughed. “You can drive home from Dulles, honey.”
The airport drop off felt like every other. We weighed both bags, printed out the tags, peeled their adhesive and stuck them on the luggage. Connor tossed them on the conveyor. We watched them snake their way to oblivion.
We walked the two minutes to TSAPre and did our tight trio hug, arms overlapping on each other’s back. Then Kendall walked down the roped-off area. We hung to the side. We lost sight of her as a blue-uniformed Lufthansa crew surrounded her like an amoeba. We saw her blonde hair flash and her hand stick up in the air for a final wave goodbye.
Ten hours later, she sent us a video of her bougie dorm room in Lisbon.
I spent that Sunday clearing the fridge of items Connor and I don’t eat, cleaning the bowls and pans we don’t use, taking the trash out of Kendall’s room. I was a little wistful, but not a tear escaped while I was over the kitchen sink. Then I sprawled on the couch watching sports with my son.
“How are you doing, ma?” Connor asked.
“Pretty good manny, pretty good,” I replied. And I meant it.
My anticipation of this rollercoaster ride had been the worst part. But even that is part of the ride, I suppose.
It’s only up from here,
Sue
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