Favourite Daughter. Kaira Rouda Sturdivant

And I know, I’ve been rather distant, ignoring him, first adjusting to Mary going away to college and then her tragic death. I’ve been lost in my complicated grief. So he looked for attention elsewhere. That’s finished now. I’m back in the game, large and in charge, as they say. Sure, she’ll be sad for a little bit, but she’ll move on. She’s so young, so good at the game. There are plenty of wealthy, older men for her to latch on to. Tomorrow at the memorial service she’ll witness David and me in love, unified. The service will be our recommitment ceremony of sorts. It also will be the end of smiley, emoticon over-user. Time’s up.

      I replace his phone on the counter, just where he left it, and hurry through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen. I adjust the lights to the dimmest setting and feel my way along the smooth countertop until I reach the sink. I fill a glass with water and chug it, noticing lights are on downstairs in Betsy’s room below me. Our home tumbles down the side of the hill. The front door is at street level, but the girls’ rooms are downstairs, downhill. Not a basement—we don’t call it that here—just a lower level.

      This is the best hour to chat. I often surprised the girls during middle school and high school, at night, catching one or the other as she raided the refrigerator after studying. It’s best, I find, to get them alone and hungry, to give them food and share my wisdom. But Betsy doesn’t join me for kitchen chats anymore, not since Mary left for college. But that’s okay. I go to her.

      I like to keep track of Betsy, too, but I’ll admit, I’ve been a little lax when it comes to my younger daughter. Sure, I check the app regularly, but she isn’t as active on her phone as David or Mary. Likely, it’s because Betsy doesn’t have many friends. But still, I need to reconnect with her. I pull up Betsy’s account, just to check. Yep, nothing there. She needs me, poor Betsy. Such a lonely girl. But I’m here for her, always. Even with all that I have going on, I did call the school counselor last week to find out if Betsy was on track to graduate, and Angelica surprised me.

      “Betsy is doing remarkably well her senior year considering all that has happened,” Angelica had said. Then she proceeded to effuse over Betsy’s choice of community college, followed by a transfer to a more prestigious college. Betsy likely won’t make it out of community college, but I didn’t tell Angelica that. I’d thanked her and hung up.

      Angelica was right about one thing: for Betsy, community college will be fine. It will keep her close to home, where she belongs. Without Mary to place my biggest hopes and dreams on, I’m left with Betsy. At least she doesn’t need to bother with sibling rivalry anymore. Things have shifted between us this year, just normal teenage rebellion, I’m sure. I’ll get us back on track. I mean, we were all teenagers once. And I love Betsy. So much.

      I pull open the refrigerator and spot the Salerno’s to-go order of four, white-boxed pasta dishes. David must have retrieved them from the front door, where I’d asked the driver to leave the food. How nice of him to bring them inside. I consider throwing the food away, but instead I grab my bottle of chardonnay, pouring a generous amount into a coffee mug. It’s not like I have an issue, but I don’t want to set a bad example for my daughter. You understand. I take a big gulp of wine, and open my junk drawer, every great kitchen has one, and pull out the letter from the bank that arrived in our mailbox last week. I unfold it and stare at the now-familiar words.

      Dear Mr. Harris. Congratulations! You have been approved for the mortgage on 1972 Port Chelsea Place, Newport Beach. All of us at First Federal thank you for choosing us...

      My heart pounds as I fold the letter into a square, and tuck it away at the back of the drawer. I love that David is surprising me, that he wants a fresh start. I just hope he announces it soon. It’s so hard for me to keep this a secret—it must be killing him. This letter is proof he still loves me, loves our family despite the tough year we’ve had since Mary died. I realize my grief was hard for David to handle. It was a necessary, normal part of what happens when a mom loses a daughter. I know, I’ve researched it, choreographed it. Truth be told, I may have enjoyed the pill haze a little too much. I mean, there isn’t a national pill-popping crisis for no reason. These things are addictive.

      It’s ironic, isn’t it? A letter from a big bank snapped me out of it. This is likely the only good thing a big bank has ever done for anybody, ever. I’m looking at you, Wells Fargo.

      I take a drink of my wine and feel just a little sorry I’ve ruined the surprise he has for me. But, like I said, I’m a professional actress. I was just one role away from getting my SAG card back in the day. When he tells me, which should be any moment now, I’ll throw my arms around him and cry tears of joy. I’m already familiar with the new neighborhood. Although it isn’t a gated community, it’s a fabulous choice. The Port Streets are lovely, quiet and safe, with sidewalks, green spaces galore and a smattering of people out walking their dogs before bed. How exciting it will be to walk through the door of our new home. Even though I’m beyond tempted, I’ve been so good and haven’t driven past it yet, or looked it up online. I know you’re impressed.

      Maybe David will take me to our new home tomorrow, and then we can step through the front door together. Or, better yet, he’ll swoop me into his arms and carry me across the threshold. Okay, no, he won’t. The wine is making me a little giddy, combining with the itty-bitty Xanax I took to help with my nap, no doubt. No matter how he tells me the good news, I can’t wait.

      I rinse the coffee mug in the sink. I’ll go downstairs and tell Betsy it’s bedtime in a friendly, warm voice. I will reignite our mother-daughter bond. In my mind, Dr. Rosenthal nods and says, Good idea, you need to take care of your only daughter, be there for Betsy, her curly salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down. She twirls her black-rimmed glasses in her right hand, before placing them in their case for the night.

      The doctor is not here. I know that. But she would be pleased I am being the mother she wants me to be.

      I make my way to the stairs and grasp the handrail tightly, reminding myself that the number one cause of accidental deaths at home is falling. Six thousand people trip and die annually in the US. At the bottom of the stairs I stop to remember the “girls only” phase as if it was yesterday. Mary in fifth grade and Betsy in fourth grade decided their floor would be girls only and taped a sign to the steps to that effect. I was welcome, David wasn’t. The way it should be, but it didn’t last long.

      I dart past Mary’s closed bedroom door, stop in front of Betsy’s and turn the knob. It’s locked, as always. David threatened to have a locksmith make a master key years ago, but we never did. Never will now. I knock on the door.

      “What?” Betsy sounds mad. I think she might have a temper. She always was the difficult one.

      “It’s Mom.”

      The door opens and Betsy stands in front of me in an oversize USC sweatshirt—Mary’s, I presume—with a smirk on her face. “What did I do to deserve this midnight visit? If you’re trying to gossip about something—or someone—you can forget it. I’m going to sleep.”

      Betsy thinks I am a gossip, but I’m not. I share important information, things she needs to know. She should be glad she can rely on me. She’s running out of time to learn. “You have a very vivid imagination. I’m not a gossip.”

      “No, you just share negative things about people, keep us guessing. I’m sure that’s not harmful at all.” Betsy makes a chuckling sound and steps away from the door.

      I wonder if I’m allowed in.

      “Don’t be rude. I came down to tuck you in. It’s bedtime. But never mind. You know I’ve only ever loved you and tried to make you happy.” I pout. I pretend to feel hurt, but I’m used to this treatment since Mary left for college. It’s an unfortunate development.

      “Fine. Come in.” She feels bad. Good. Betsy walks to her bed and flops on her stomach. I follow her inside. The walls of her room are covered with her original art, oil paintings of various sizes, mostly abstract subjects, and phrases such as Manifest Abundance and Nourish Your Higher Self.

      A light blue dream catcher dangles from the ceiling