My daughter is a bedroom door. We speak to her from the hallway with our foreheads pressed against her broad flat back and our hands hovering over her handle. We want to wrench it, twist it, push it hard and fast, but we fear it will come loose, and with it, the only way to move her. I refuse to leave out food. She must do some things for herself. We assume she gets free of her hinges during the night while we pretend to sleep in our bed. My husband says to leave her be, that she may eventually come around. But that’s not a plan. I want to sleep in the hall, to catch her unaware in those rare moments she becomes a girl again, hug her stiff frame and tell her we love her and miss her. All those things parents believe will make a difference. All those things teenage doors don't want to hear.
She often weeps. We worry she'll warp, and that we’ll eventually have to use force – and do irrevocable damage in the process of cutting her free.