Favourite Daughter. Kaira Rouda Sturdivant

Tonight will be lovely, and tomorrow night, at the ceremony, I’ll be right by your side, David, as you will mine.”

      I’m back. I smile at his frown. He doesn’t like my answer.

      His shoulders drop. “I can’t stay for dinner. But you eat the pasta. You need to gain some weight. People in The Cove are talking.”

      “Oh, are they? About my weight? I don’t think that’s the hottest topic in the neighborhood.” I glance at the bed. After he leaves, maybe I’ll take a nap? I may be able to fall asleep even though it’s barely past seven. It’s been so long since I’ve slept. I’ve been so busy.

      “Maybe it isn’t the hottest topic, but it’s a concern.” David walks toward the bedroom door.

      “Stop!” I blurt, my tone sharper than I’d intended. I cover my mouth with my hand, forcing myself not to say more. He can’t just walk away from me. It has been surprisingly comforting to have David home this evening. I even allowed myself to imagine him joining me for dinner. I was feeling a little sentimental, a little needy. How stupid. This isn’t about love. We already have that, as you can see. This is about control. We will dine together soon, and for as many evenings as I’d like, once I get back in charge. The way I had been, from the moment we met.

      Our relationship began slowly like an orchestrated dance number. I was in the lead. David had been dropping into the Santa Monica club where I worked for more than two weeks and we’d been making eye contact and flirting, despite his regular blonde date attached to his arm. Sure, she had a gorgeous body and the air of money that made the space around her sparkle like gold. But I knew I was different than all those sorority girls. Special beauty, as my mom would say when she was sober.

      I’d worked hard since I’d moved to LA after high school. I’d lost my accent but I hadn’t lost my Southern charm. I could tell David was looking for someone like me, someone different, someone more exotic than the cookie-cutter sorority girls, someone with big dreams, a charmed future: a diamond in the land of cubic zirconia. I slipped him my phone number, in the most old-fashioned way, written on a napkin placed under his beer, our fingers brushing as electricity surged between us.

      Now, as David stands at the door to our bedroom, he laughs and shakes his head. “You shouldn’t yell, Jane. It’s not becoming.”

      I walk to his side, my hands clenched. It’s part of our dance these days, this feigned politeness, this lingering something. Is it nostalgia or just an endurance test to the finish line on Thursday? I still believe in us. I put my hand on his chest, imagine I’m touching his heart. “Sorry. Please stay.”

      Instead of embracing me, he takes my hand from his chest and squeezes, an awkward gesture that presses my two-carat engagement ring into the knuckle of my middle finger. “I’m going to work out and grab dinner after at the club. Don’t wait up.”

      Once he’s gone I sigh, trying to push my frustration aside. In the bathroom I pick up his bottle of cologne. When I unscrew the lid I take a deep inhalation of his favorite scent, the smell of my husband. In our closet I see his silk ties hanging up in a neat little row. He’s so tidy. Likes his things under control, orderly. For David, and I suppose most husbands and fathers who are the “sole providers” for their families, their personal spaces at home provide the comfort they don’t find at the office. The sense of order, the semblance of routine.

      Home is so much more than a place, it’s your anchor, your retreat. I know it is especially important to him now that Mary is gone, his favorite daughter. He finds peace in his color-coded closet. David is a cyclone of activity out in the world ever since the accident. He’s kept up a frenetic schedule this past year, but he always comes home to me, eventually.

      I shake my head, knowing I don’t have the energy to straighten up the chaos on my side of the closet. I’ve learned to embrace my mess. And besides, I have other things to focus on. My husband deserves my thoughtfulness, my presence at the ceremony tomorrow, and I can’t wait to surprise him with everything else I have planned.

      Each time he walks out our front door he becomes someone different. At home, with me, he’s the grieving father of a dead daughter. Out in the world, he’s an übersuccessful businessman with his sculptured chin held high, invincible. Out in the world he doesn’t worry about his sad wife. I’m sure of that. Most of the time, it’s easier for him if he doesn’t think of me at all. But I’m always thinking about him.

      For example, who wears cologne and Gucci loafers to the gym? No one. I swallow and try to control my shaking hands by shoving them into the pockets of my jeans. I hurry from the bathroom and climb in bed. I stare at the dark black glass of our huge flat-screen TV. David insisted on having a television in the bedroom, something I opposed. I know myself. I can get sucked into a show, a story, and always ended up staying up too late when the girls were little. I like to lose myself while I watch television, one of the things my mom and I had in common. She had the television on all day and night, making me watch her favorite shows with her when she was in a good mood. She taught me how to critique actresses, and to learn from them.

      And I’ve learned a lot over the years. That’s why it was time to pull myself out of my seemingly unshakable depression. After this week, I’m going to begin my career again. I’ve already lined up a photographer to shoot some head shots. David will be so pleased. He fell in love with me when I was acting in LA. He’ll be so surprised when the old me makes a comeback. I’m focusing on the future now.

      Instead of dinner tonight, tomorrow’s ceremony will be the beginning of my second act. Us women, especially moms, we’re resilient. At times life just throws us punches. But I’ve always been a fighter. Sometimes we have to take a stand for those we love, protect them from bad choices, love them even when they don’t think they need it. I know some women who are stuck in their relationships, in their lives, who don’t have choices.

      I know how lucky I am and I know how to fight to get what I deserve.

      So, life, let’s get ready to rumble.

       2

      11:30 p.m.

      I stand at the edge of a cliff when suddenly the earth gives way and I’m falling, my hands reach for something to hold on to, something to stop my fall, but it’s only air. I’m tumbling, screaming.

      I wake with a start and sit up quickly, my heart racing. My regular nightmare, I can’t make it stop, bursting into my subconscious. I jolt awake before I hit the water, before I drown like Mary did.

      My heart races as I take deep breaths and try to calm down. I’m safe in bed. It’s dark outside. David is home, how nice, snoring beside me after his workout and dinner. Climbing out of bed, I’m desperate for a drink. Of water, or wine, or both. But first, I creep into the bathroom, illuminating my way with the soft light from my phone. And there is David’s phone, where he always leaves it, plugged in and resting on the counter next to his sink. My heart thumps as I quickly enter the code and smile with relief when I realize he hasn’t changed it. It’s our two birthdays, 1420. I open Find My Friends on my phone, a feature I didn’t realize we all have until I did a little research. How wonderful. I send David’s phone an invite, and accept on his behalf. Now I’ll know exactly where he is all the time. I glance out toward the bed, listening for the quiet rumble of his snore. There it is.

      I grab his phone again and open the text messages even though I’ve already read them in real time with my handy parental control app, otherwise known as spyware. These products are versatile. I mean, they sell them so we concerned parents can track our kids, a perfectly legitimate use, am I right? And can you ever be too vigilant, too protective? Of course not. Don’t judge—everybody uses these things, not just me.

      I simply added one more person to my bundle, my loving husband. Oh, look, there is a new text. From her: smiley, kissy face, red heart. She’s so predictable with her childish overuse of emoticons, and her stupid declarations of love. As if Italian food is