Around the time our daughter turned twelve, she morphed into an angry, sullen young woman. She refused to be seen in public with me, wouldn’t let me braid her hair, and if I did take her to the mall to buy new back-to-school clothes, she’d walk behind me as if we weren’t related.

            Her new persona made the entire family miserable, but it struck me deep in my heart.

            As months passed, she distanced herself further and further away, essentially cutting the family out of her life. She hurt her father deeply and was so mean to her brothers that both were afraid to initiate conversations with her for they’d only end up in an argument that they couldn’t win.

            At that time, I was the primary cook for all three meals. I’d get up early, stoke our wood-burning stove, then prepare a hot meal. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, oatmeal: something to begin a productive school day.

            Then I’d pack their lunches, trying to put something in each that they’d like. I often also included a positive note, something upbeat to warm their hearts. I imagined that my daughter ate hers, but found out, when her younger brother caught her, that she was throwing the food away. Food we couldn’t afford to waste.

            Despite having little money, we’d gotten by. No one went hungry unless they chose not to eat (I refused to cook separate meals), no one wore rags or faded or stretched out of shape clothes, even though the majority of our clothes came from thrift stores. They had toys, which also mainly came from thrift stores, even as Christmas gifts, and they all got to play some kind of sport.

            By winter of that year, our daughter refused to eat anything I’d cooked. It felt like she thought I was trying to poison her, something I’d never do despite how obnoxious she behaved.

            Since our first child was born, I’d always included something in the meal that he would eat. By the time our third child arrived, I generally had two things they’d eat in every meal. With our daughter, however, she began screaming, “I’ve never liked…ham or pancakes or corn.” Even though that was an outright lie.

            I couldn’t keep up with what she no longer ate, what she would eat.

            On top of that, every meal was bound to turn into an argument. The only “safe” meal was a silent one. She’d claim the sky was purple if someone commented on how blue it was. Or she’d blame one of her brothers for not putting away the Lego when she was the one who had refused.

            She created a combat zone in our house. We were all miserable.

            A year in, and her health became impacted. At thirteen she should have been developing, maturing, but her body was on hold. She was frequently ill, with me getting calls at school to come pick her up, time I didn’t have.

            My husband began helping with dinner, even though it meant eating later than we preferred. He’d come home, quickly change clothes, then chop onions or form hamburger into patties.

            If our daughter saw him doing to cooking, she’d eat.

            We began “fooling” her. When she was busy in her bedroom, I’d start meal preparations. When my husband came home, he’d finish the meal, plate it and put it on the table.

            This worked for several months until she walked into the kitchen as we were making the switch.

            She became quite thin, and I was concerned that she was anorexic.

            One afternoon, I was called by her school, once again, to come pick her up. Apparently, she’d feinted during class. By this time Kaiser had opened an adolescent unit, and we were taken in shortly after arrival.

            The doctor met with our daughter first. After about thirty minutes, I was called into the room.

            The doctor told me what she’d said to our daughter. That her heart wasn’t beating regularly, that her kidneys and liver were in danger, that she’d die if she kept up her “eating” routine. I cried, shrugged, and told the doctor that I didn’t know how to change things.

            The doctor made our daughter promise to eat one full meal a day, two smaller ones as well. She told us both that unless the changes were made, our daughter would die.

            Something must have hit home.

            Beginning that night, she ate some of the dinner. She nibbled at breakfast the next day, and took the three dollars I gave her to buy something at school.

            The road to recovery continued to be rocky. We’d think we’d overcome one hurdle only for her to toss another in our faces.

            In high school she met up with several nice young men who both fell in love with her. The one she preferred was from another faith, but he seemed to make her happy. Most importantly, he’d invite her to his house for dinner.

            Of course I spoke with his mom, so she understood some of what had been happening. She offered to continue having her for dinner, so we knew she had one good meal per day.

            Several years later, during her junior year of college, they married. Something about being a wife, and very quickly a mother, change my daughter.

            I’d like to report that we still walk carefully, not wanting to upset her. But, when we talk on the phone or get to spend time together, we have lovely conversations.

            Time doesn’t heal all ills, but it can reduce the pain.