Favourite Daughter. Kaira Rouda Sturdivant

glance at the name Mary tattooed on her right wrist surrounded by tiny pink hearts, and bite my tongue. As far as a tribute to your sister, I could think of many better ideas. But we disagree on that, too.

      She catches my smirk and pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Dad said you were passed out for the night.”

      Charming of David to say such a thing. “Did you two have dinner together?” I hear the questions tumble out of my mouth, the hint of jealousy and judgment in my words.

      Betsy rolls onto her back and sits up. If she were a cat, her claws would be out, ready to defend herself. My daughter is intuitive, I’ll give her that. She says, “No, we didn’t. I guess he was with his friends and I was out with mine. I mean, after art class.”

      “Of course he was. How was art class?” I’m grateful she doesn’t add too bad you don’t have any friends, Mom, as she’s said before. She’s watching me as usual. She’s learned from the best.

      “Oh, great.” She smiles. Suddenly I know she’s hiding something. But what could it be?

      I need to ask her about the email I received from school. “Volunteer Day is Tuesday. Do you want me there?”

      Betsy considers me. “Did you go to Mary’s Volunteer Day?”

      “Yes. I did.”

      “Okay, sure, why not? I’m in charge of painting the backdrop.”

      “I can’t paint, but I’ll try.” I can paint as well as Betsy can. I focus on what appears to be a new piece of art hanging on the wall next to where I stand. It looks like a thick, bright red heart. It’s dripping a rainbow of colors that pool into a black sea at the bottom of the canvas. I don’t enjoy abstract art. I like realism, clarity. Not this interpretive style Betsy has concocted. I should tell her it is good but it’s not. Secretly I don’t think she has much talent. But a good mom would never say that to her daughter, and I’m a great mom.

      “You don’t like my new piece?” Betsy challenges me. She tries to stir me up. Don’t you just hate it when your teen tries to push your buttons? That’s why God made us smarter than them.

      “It’s nice.” I meet her eyes. I smile, sweetly.

      She laughs. “Whatever.”

      “You know what, you’re right. It’s not my favorite. I just think you could do better. This looks like blood or something. It’s just dark.”

      “Wow. An artist paints what she feels, what she knows. It’s subliminal, emotions. You just don’t understand.” She shakes her head. She hasn’t moved from the bed. I don’t think she’s frightened by me, not like I was with my mom. I’ve never hurt her physically. That’s when it’s scary. This little temper of mine, well, it’s nothing compared to my mom. She doesn’t even know how ugly this could be between us. You’ve seen the horror show of moms and teen daughters who despise each other? I have, too. I lived it.

      Betsy has no idea just how fortunate she has been.

      In fact, it’s almost as if she pities me. She shouldn’t. It’s weak. It’s an emotion that won’t serve her well in this life, certainly not around me. And soon, she’s going to need to be strong: she’s about to enter the cold, hard real world.

      I’m not sure how to respond to her silence, so I stare at her and shrug. “I’ve had a long day.”

      “Sure you have.” She chuckles again. I know she thinks I do nothing but mope around in our home all day. I guess that is all she sees of me.

      I glance at the door across from where I stand. It leads to the back patio. Both girls’ rooms have exterior doors and an external stairway leads to the front, outside courtyard. This is how Betsy comes and goes as she pleases. I should have turned the doors into windows before the teenage years. It’s too late now.

      “Mom, anything else?” She’s watching me as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. I know she wishes she had my sexy figure, thin build. She has David’s big bones, poor girl. I turn my head, check out my backside looking over my right shoulder. Not bad for forty-two years old.

      I remember a question I’d been meaning to ask her, my memory finally coming through. “I haven’t seen Josh lately. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner this week to celebrate graduation?” I haven’t seen him at all, come to think of it. Why didn’t I keep up with them, invite him to dinner? I know they’ve been texting this school year and Betsy is very sweet with him. I just haven’t seen him. I’ve been focused on other things, and healing, of course. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t been through this how debilitating the loss of a child can be. It makes it so hard to keep track of the other people in your life because you’re so consumed with the one who has gone. But I must. I’m the mother. That’s why I have my handy app. And Betsy has used the love word with him in texts. I need to monitor that kind of language.

      “We broke up a couple weeks ago. I meant to tell you.” Her eyes focus on a stain on her bedspread. She picks at it with her fingernail.

      “What? Really? Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” I blink and stare at Betsy. She seems unfazed.

      “It’s not a big deal. I still love him, as a friend. We’ve always been more friends than anything.” She finally stops picking at the bedspread and smiles at me. “The passion was gone. You know the feeling?”

      I don’t want to know, no. I swallow. “I always thought you could do better anyway.” Josh seemed perpetually barefoot, smelled vaguely of weed and needed a bath. Even when he was wearing tennis clothes he seemed, well, dingy. I care about Betsy, and who she dates. It’s a reflection on me, everything she does, everything she will do. “So is there anybody new I should know about?”

      She meets my eyes. “No.”

      “Well, that’s good. You should focus on your studies. Spend time with me. And Dad. You’ll be graduating so soon.”

      “Thank God. And I know what you think, Mom.” She’s staring at the ceiling. Telling herself to be patient with me, perhaps? Her frustration zings through the air, hits me in the gut. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

      She should watch herself tonight. I’ve already been so disappointed by her dad this evening.

      “I love you.” I walk to her bedside, touch her soft, shoulder-length blond hair with my hand. I lean forward and kiss her cheek and try not to react to the diamond stud sparkling from the side of her nose. I can’t remember if we shopped for a dress for graduation. Did we?

      “What are you wearing for graduation?” The look on her face tells me that I should know the answer. One of the aftereffects of strong emotion is memory loss. My memory also is hazy because of the free-flowing pharmaceuticals prescribed by Dr. Rosenthal. But I stopped most of those. I need to focus. Even without the drugs, I can’t seem to hold on to things like before.

      “The purple Free People dress. Remember?” Betsy shakes her head.

      I don’t remember. “Of course. Now I remember. You’ll be beautiful.”

      Betsy smiles, and it’s hollow. I don’t think she believes me, but maybe she just doesn’t care. “I’m wearing the silver one to the ceremony tomorrow.” She looks down at her hands, her fingernails bitten to the quick, another result of the tragic accident we’ll commemorate tomorrow. She curls her hands into fists, hiding the carnage of her fingernails. “Are you sure it was a good idea to invite the whole world to this funeral celebration thing?”

      “I’m not sure. Your dad handled it all.”

      “Woo-hoo! Come grab a drink. My sister’s dead.” Betsy hops off her bed, takes a step toward her bathroom and stops. Her hands are in fists but her blue eyes have a glassy sheen, as if she’s about to cry. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

      “Oh, honey, you know it’s to remember her, not