Privacy is such a lonely word.

The basement bathroom. It's far enough removed from the ordinary Saturday afternoon activity, I conclude, and seems like the only place at this moment that offers a safe haven. Locked behind the door, I switch on the fan to use as an audible buffer. The light stays off. My bullet goes on to the third of seven settings. No sooner had the left side of my flushed face settled comfortably into the plush throw rug when my zone was jarringly interrupted by a knock on the door and my 13-year-old daughter's voice.

"Mom? Mom, what are you DOING in there?"

"I am going to the bathroom!! What do you WANT?"

"The UPS guy needs a signature. Are you okay??"

My voice sounds loud and frustrated over the hum of the fan, although the other buzz had stopped. Suddenly.

"Yes! Just sign it!"

Later, when I surfaced, my daughter comments. I can't help hearing suspicion in her voice.
"Um ... going to the bathroom? You sounded like you were in pain."

"Sometimes going to the bathroom can be painful." What else can I say? It was the first thing that came to mind. And most likely, one of the first things she chooses to discuss with her therapist in years to come.