“It’s lunchtime here, Mom,” she said. “I have a few minutes before my next class. What’s up?”

Diana never could get her head around the time difference in Japan. “Oh. Good. I was just wondering how you were doing?”

“Oh, great! Fine! There’s always something crazy going on here, you know.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“The girls at work took me to an izakaya—that’s a bar—in Tokyo where they locked us in a prison cell.”

“A prison cell?”

“Yeah, and all the drinks were served in test tubes and beakers with eyeballs floating in it. It was wild. And we were shut in for the night with all these crazy characters chasing after us!”

“Oh. Wow.”

“I know, I know, it’s not your thing. But it was fun!”

Diana smiled. Her daughter’s adventures could fill a very large book. There were so many places she visited, so many new things she learned . . . Diana used to love living vicariously through her daughter, seeing Bea living life to the fullest. But as Bea went on talking a mile-a-minute about how scared she was being chased by a knife-wielding madman during her dinner, a strange feeling pooled in Diana’s gut.

It was FOMO. Big time. No, it had never been her dream to be pursued by a murderer, but at least, it was different. Diana glanced at her reflection for a moment in the rearview mirror. Since when had she bothered to change her hair style? Not in twenty years. For that long, it had been the same—wake up, go to work, come home, and go to bed only to start it all over again in the morning. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done anything to break routine.

“That sounds so great, honey. I bet—”

“Sorry, Mom. I’ve got to go. My next class starts in five.”

“Okay. I’ll see you! Love you!”

“Love you, Mom,” Bea said, ending the call.

By the time Diana pulled into the driveway of her Oyster Bay house, it was just before eleven. Outside her front door, the bay was a swath of crystal, sparkling in the moonlight. Yawning, she climbed the stairs to the large colonial’s front porch, remembering how homey the house had been before. Back when the kids were young, her mother shared the house, they had a pet golden retriever named Max, and they employed a nanny—every room in the place would be awash in light when she finished the two-hour drive from Manhattan. She’d walk through the door, and Max would bound up to greet her followed by the children, hugging the life out of her. They’d all sit down to dinner and chat about their day, and the kitchen table would be full of laughter and smiles.

Now, the place was cold . . . dark . . . uninviting. Everyone was gone.

When she pushed open the door, she stood in the foyer, remembering how Beatrice and Lily used to screech her name excitedly as they’d grabbed onto the thighs of her pantsuit, nearly toppling her. Max would bark happily, not wanting to be left out.