When I return to the motel, Molly is at the pool, a turquoise oval set in an apron of groomed grass. It’s not exactly swimming weather, but this might be the last swim of the summer. So, despite the hint of a nip in the air, I decide to join her. I duck into the room, don my swimsuit, one of those figure-flattering jobs with hidden panels designed to suck everything in. Of course, it can’t suck in what it doesn’t cover, so I slip on the secret weapon of the forty-year-old woman—the cover-up.

My flip-flops slap against the sun-softened asphalt of the parking lot as I approach the pool. Molly is wearing the yellow-and-white bikini we picked out in the end-of-season sale at the mall back home, and her hair is slicked back, her skin dewy from swimming. She sits at the edge of the shallow end, watching two little kids, a boy and a girl who are maybe four and six.

I take in the sight of her, wondering when we’ll travel together again, when we’ll pick a motel because of its pool, when we’ll eat junk food and watch TV together late into the night. Everything on this journey is more significant and intense because it’s the last time.

The kids are laughing and splashing under the watchful eye of their mother, who turns occasionally to make conversation with Molly. As I watch, Molly wades in to help the little girl adjust her water wing, then holds her hand and turns her in a circle while making a motorboat sound. The little girl giggles and flails while I stand off to the side, watching. And suddenly I am seeing Molly and me, hearing our laughter echo across the water, feeling her tiny hand in mine as I lead the way.

I’m struck by how like me she is right now, angling her arm just so, making certain she’s not going too fast or too deep for the small, trusting child. Where did she learn her gentleness with children, her humor? I don’t remember teaching it, yet here she is, replicating a moment I didn’t recall until just now. Suddenly, the memory is as clear to me as if it had happened the day before yesterday. One long-ago summer day, we looked exactly like this, a young woman and a little girl, sharing a small moment together.

Except I am not in the picture. This is Molly’s moment, one that has nothing to do with me. And it’s weirdly okay with me. She is her own person and I don’t feel the need to insert myself into any of this.

Her cell phone, which is lying on a metal poolside table, suddenly goes off. Travis’s ring sounds like a fire alarm.