“Frances,” Joan said, her voice stern. “I’m coming to get you, and I’m taking you home.”

Frances was quiet for a moment and then, finally, said in barely more than a whisper, “Okay.”

“Listen to me,” Joan said. “I was circling two hundred miles above the Earth, and all I wanted was to get home and see you. Do you understand that? Do you understand that I don’t care how big or small this world is, that you are the center of mine? Do you understand that, to someone, you are everything that matters on this entire planet?”

“Okay,” Frances said again. This time Joan could hear the lump in her throat.

When Frances was younger, her problems had been tough but simple. She couldn’t sleep. She cut her lip. She couldn’t write uppercase B’s.

But Frances was ten years old now, a few months into sixth grade. Her problems were heavier and darker. Joan couldn’t fix them with a sweet word or a joke or some ice. To hear Frances alone and crying so far away, it made Joan feel absolutely helpless. And she could not live with that.

“I will be there in less than four hours. Pack your stuff.”

“I can’t leave without Mom signing me out.”

Joan sighed. “Goddammit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you.”

Joan considered the situation. “Okay, it might take me a bit longer. But I’ll be there. Have your stuff packed.”

“Okay,” Frances said. And then: “Joanie?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, babe. More than you will ever know.”

—

Joan’s ears were ringing as she knocked on Barbara’s front door with the side of her fist, pounding so hard she shook the windowpanes.

“Jesus, Joan,” Barbara said when she came to the door.

“Barbara, I swear to God…”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “I assume she’s performed some sob story for you?”

“You said she wanted to stay there with a bunch of other kids.”

Barbara left the door open and walked back into the house. Joan followed her.

“Joan, what do you want from me?”

“Where’s Daniel?”

“He’s picking up the traveler’s checks.”

“What are you thinking, running off to Europe? Don’t do this. Let Frances come home.”

Barbara inhaled and then shook her head. “No.”

“She’s having Thanksgiving with a teacher. They are eating club sandwiches.”

“They are eating turkey sandwiches with cranberry sauce. But there the two of you go, making it seem worse than it is. She’s being a manipulative brat. And I’m surprised you’re falling for it. But you always do. You’re such a mark, Joan, honestly.”

Joan could not control the ferocity that came out of her. “What is the matter with you?” she yelled.

“What do you want from me?” Barbara shouted.

“I want you to take care of your daughter!”