Joan had met Daniel. She’d joined Barbara, Frances, and him out for dinner one weekend. When Joan had shown up in the parking lot of the restaurant, he’d taken off his ten-gallon hat and put it to his chest as he shook her hand and smiled. Joan noticed that he was about ten years older than Barbara, hair graying at the temples. He seemed perfectly nice, albeit arrogant in exactly the way Barbara would confuse for confidence.

“Well, she’s getting laid consistently, so that’s probably it,” Vanessa said.

Joan shook her head. “Would you stop?”

“Still such a prude,” Vanessa said as she kissed Joan’s neck and dragged her into the bedroom.

—

Joan did not know what to expect that evening, but then, when she met Barbara and Frances at the main parking lot at JSC, she immediately spotted the giant diamond ring on Barbara’s finger. She decided not to say anything.

“Hey, babe,” Joan said to Frances.

Frances was nine now and had taken on an air of maturity that Joan both celebrated and mourned. There was no sitting on Joan’s lap anymore, no smushing their noses together, no carrying Frances across a crowded parking lot. Those things had been replaced by talking about pop music, and wanting to see a lot of the same movies, and less being asked of Joan in the taking care of her.

When Frances had been younger, Joan would sometimes carry her such long distances that it hurt her back. Back then, Frances would hang on so tight that sometimes she would press on Joan’s windpipe or kick her in the ribs. Now Frances would barely hold her hand.

Joan felt, so acutely, that the incurable problem with life was that nothing was ever in balance. That she could not have toddler Frances and fifth-grade Frances at the same time. She could not meet adult Frances and have a moment to hold baby Frances all at once. You could not have a little of everything you wanted.

Joan tried to remind herself that when Frances had been younger, she had held Frances’s little hand every single chance she got. When Frances had been a baby, she had smelled her hair sometimes for whole minutes at a time. She had been present for all of it. Didn’t that mean that she would not grieve its loss, since she had voraciously and self-indulgently taken all of it that was offered?

No. It did not.

She still ached for every version of Frances.

But to love Frances was to be always saying goodbye to the girl Frances used to be and falling in love again with the girl Frances was becoming.

She missed every Frances she had known. But oh, this Frances. This lanky, gangly, whip-smart Frances, with her ears pierced and a Cyndi Lauper T-shirt on, this Frances was a gift Joan would one day miss, too.