I didn't make a speech. I didn't sit her down for a talk about her period. I know my daughter — if I'd made it a big deal, she would have shut down.
I just left a box on her bed with a note that said: "For your hard days. Love, Mom."
She didn't mention it for two weeks.
Then her period came.
That evening, I expected what I always expected: her bedroom door closed, lights off, silence. The empty chair at dinner.
Instead, she came downstairs.
She sat at the table. She ate. She talked about school. She laughed at her dad's terrible joke.
When she got up, she hugged me. Just a quick one. And she whispered: "Thanks, Mom. It helped."
That was three months ago. She hasn't been to the nurse's office since. She's eating lunch again on her period days. She did PE last week on day two. The Advil boxes haven't come back.
Last week she asked me to order another box. And then she said: "Can you get one for my friend Ava too? She has it bad and her mom doesn't know."