When Her Weather Became Mine

My daughter’s birthday was yesterday. At her request, I made eggplant parmesan.

On Saturday, I went to the farmers market, Costco, and Market Hall to gather everything I needed. On Sunday morning, my partner and I made tomato sauce, ricotta filling, Caesar dressing, and garlic bread. I fried slice after slice of eggplant and layered it with sauce, cheese, and fresh basil. That afternoon, I went out to buy party hats and favors and pulled out photographs of my daughter as a child.

I wanted to make something beautiful for her.

When she arrived, she seemed happy to be there. She showed us photographs from a recent trip, laughed with us, and drank the special beer I had bought for her.

Then, sometime during dinner, her weather changed.

I don’t know what happened. The daughter who had walked through the door laughing disappeared. It was as if a black cloud had moved into the room.

And almost immediately, my weather changed too.

I felt hurt. Then angry. Then resentful.

I worked so hard, and she doesn’t appreciate me.

Why do I bother?

I can never make her happy.

There it was.

I love my daughter. I want her to be happy. Seeing her happy makes me happy. But somewhere along the way, I had quietly made an agreement with her that she knew nothing about:

You be happy, and then I can be happy.

She left that night quiet and withdrawn. I went to bed angry.

By morning, something in me had loosened enough for me to see what had happened. I had tied my experience to hers. If she was happy, I could enjoy the evening. If she wasn’t, something had gone wrong. I had worked so hard to create a beautiful birthday for her, and without realizing it, I wanted her happiness in return.

When I untied my rope from hers, I came back to myself.

And from there, instead of being angry with her, I became curious about her.

I wonder what happened.

I could also see something else. I made that meal because I wanted to. I love going to the farmers market. I love making tomato sauce. I love frying eggplant and layering it with cheese. I love setting a table and feeding people I love. I love watching them eat something I made with my hands.

Her response didn’t have to determine the value of any of that.

Would I have preferred that she laughed through dinner and licked tomato sauce from her fork? Of course.

But her happiness belongs to her. Mine belongs to me.

And perhaps this is one of the ways we learn to love another human being: to care deeply about their weather without having to live inside it.