“I heard you the first time. Can you go now? I just got the new Goose-bumps and I really want to finish it tonight. It’s called Why I’m Afraid of Bees. Hey, this should be cool, and I can relate, because I’ve already been stung at least a hundred times. Get it?”

“Shanice?”

“What?” she says in a clearly irritated tone now.

“This isn’t the end of this.”

“Probably isn’t.”

“No. I mean I should have you checked out.”

“I’ve been checked out. Like they say in my dance class: I’ve already had my rite of passage.”

I wish she would stop this. But I know why she’s doing it. I don’t blame her. But she’s my daughter. I love her. And I need to take steps to let her know that I have her best interests at heart regardless of what she thinks or how it looks. “I should probably get some kind of counseling for you.”

“I already have a counselor at school.”

“I don’t mean that kind.”

“Oh, you mean a shrink?”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t need to see any shrink. There’s nothing wrong with me. It’s your husband who’s the freak. He’s the one who needs to see a doctor. Not me.”

“I’ll tell you what. We can think about this for a while and see what happens. How’s that sound?”

“I know I’m gonna feel the same way next week, next month, and probably even next year, too.”

“You don’t know how you’re going to feel.”

“You don’t either.”

“You’re right. But I want to know.”

“Well, right now I’m just glad he finally got caught and thankful he’s gone. I hate his ugly guts.”

“I know.”

“No you don’t.”

“I hate him, too,” I say, leaning against the molding because I need something to support me.

“You don’t hate him.”

“Yes I do.”

“You hate what he’s done to me. But you can’t hate him, because you love the ground he walks on.”

“There’s a very thin line between love and hate, and he crossed over it.”

“But what are you gonna do without him?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you going to do without him?”

“Do?”

“I’m not repeating it.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?” She tosses the book onto the pile, grabs another one, opens it to the first page, and looks as if she’s already totally engrossed. “Would you close the door behind you?” she asks, not looking up.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says, flipping what looks like five or ten pages.

“You think you’ll be up for the drive to see your granny?”

“Of course I will.” She sighs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I’m sorry for asking. I close the door slowly and stand outside it, listening for some sign, a sound, anything that might let me know she’s feeling something besides anger. I hear more pages turn. And more still. And although I know my daughter is the real victim here, the sad thing is, I feel quite wounded, too.