I’m kind of glad she doesn’t remember the first disastrous recital. But I’m also glad I pushed her to do it. It occurs to me how much simpler it is to push your child in the right direction rather than yourself.

Molly flicks on the turn signal and drifts over to the right lane.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Thread, remember? You need thread.”

The Suburban glides down the exit ramp and she takes a right, following a sign that points to “City Center.”

Before too long, we find one of those chain craft and fabric stores. “They won’t have the right kind,” I lament.

“Then get another kind. No biggie.” She catches the look on my face. “You should have brought more of the magical thread, if it’s so important.”

We step into the bright commercial glare of the craft shop. “You’re right,” I admit, “but Minerva’s ran out and won’t be getting in any more. She’s closing the shop, you know.”

“Nope, I didn’t know. I thought it was for sale.”

“It is. She’s retiring and selling the place, but I doubt she’ll find a buyer in this economy. I’ll miss it. All her customers will. The idea of driving all the way to Rock Springs has no appeal to me at all.”

“Bummer,” Molly says, tucking her thumbs in her back pockets as she regards a display of notions.

As always, beautiful fabrics draw my eye. A few impossible-to-resist fat quarters make it into my shopping basket. The lure of a new project beckons. This happens a lot; I get close to the end of one thing and another pops into mind, seductive and infinitely more alluring than the project at hand.

At the end of a multitiered aisle, Molly fingers a green glass suncatcher marked Special of the Week. “Can I get this?”

My knee-jerk reaction is, You don’t need more junk. But she takes after me, a magpie drawn to every glittering object that catches her eye. She’s always been this way. Besides, it’s in the shape of a music note, and it’s only five bucks.

* * *

“One more pit stop,” Molly says. Instead of going to the car, she heads into the shop across the way, a department store named Bradner’s.

I happily follow her. It’s fun shopping with someone who has her figure; everything looks good on her. But when I step into the store, I catch a whiff of White Shoulders perfume. This doesn’t seem like Molly’s kind of shop.

“What do you need, sweetie?”

“Come on,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “We’re going to pick out some new clothes for you.”

“But…”

“But what, Mom?” Her excitement flashes to annoyance.

The usual litany of excuses piles up: I don’t need new clothes. I don’t have time. I don’t want to spend the money. I want to lose some weight before I buy a bunch of things. I’m not important enough.

I look at Molly and grin. “Let’s do it.”