Her words remind me that there are some things I’m not meant to teach her. She’ll only learn them by finding out for herself. I can hope and pray that I’ve raised a young woman who knows how to be happy, but I can’t hand it to her like my mother’s button collection, sealed in a mason jar. Starting now, she will have to be the steward of her own life.

After four songs, greeted with enthusiastic applause, the band takes a quick break and we buy a copy of their CD. The singer smiles a little bashfully and we smile back, two strangers who like the sound of her voice. She signs the case with an indelible marker. “Y’all enjoy that, now,” she says.

“We will,” I say.

The waitress reappears, another beer and another 7UP on her tray, even though we didn’t ask for a second round.

“The gentlemen over there sent them,” she explains, indicating with her thumb and a wink.

“Oh, uh…” My cheeks catch fire. I can’t bring myself to look.

The waitress sets down the drinks and leaves.

“Get out of town,” Molly says. “Mom, those guys sent us drinks.”

“Don’t make eye contact. And for heaven’s sake, don’t drink—”

She takes a sip of her fresh 7UP. Watching her expertly made-up eyes over the rim of the glass, I see a whole world of things I haven’t told her, matters that need to be explained to someone who, in so many ways, is still only a child. I’ve had eighteen years to teach her not to accept gifts from strange men. I never got around to doing it. So much of this thing called parenting is a matter of waiting for a situation to arise and then addressing it. Just when you think you have all your bases covered, you—

“They’re coming over,” she says in a scandalized whisper.

I want to slither under the table. I’ve never been good in social situations, not with men, anyway. For Molly’s sake I need to get over the urge to slither. This is a teachable moment.

“Thank you for the drinks,” I tell the older one. He’s maybe thirty, and the way he’s looking at me makes me glad I’m wearing the mom clothes. “We were just leaving, though.”

“I bet you have time for one dance,” he says, smiling beneath a well-groomed mustache. He looks like the guy in that old TV series, Magnum PI. Magpie, Dan called it. I never did like that show.

His friend is clean-shaven, late twenties, checking out Molly with an expression that makes me want to call 911.

And here’s the thing. I can’t call 911. Nobody’s doing anything illegal. It just feels that way to me.

“My mother and I really need to go,” Molly says, polite but firm as she stands up. She tugs her shirt down, probably hoping they don’t notice her midriff.

“Just trying to be friendly,” the clean-shaven one said. His buddy seems to be having a delayed reaction to the word mother.