John faded into the background. I never hired a babysitter. Every few years, John’s mother would visit from Seattle, where they’d retired, and spend a week with us. Eleanor would urge John and me to go out, and we would, but I was anxious, never able to relax the way I sensed I was supposed to. I only wanted to be home with my precious, wonderful daughter. The very word was magical. My mother-in-law deserved a little time alone with her, though, so I did it.

Home, our gracious, warm, inviting home, was made more perfect because of Juliet. Her artwork hung on the fridge, and I couldn’t seem to take enough photos of her. Her room was a delightful chaos of books and stuffed animals and projects. I turned one of the extra bedrooms into her own library, filling it with books she had loved, did love, would love. Oh, the happy hours we spent there, reading together!

My parents visited only once (we bought them tickets, but even so, you’d think they were being sent to a work camp in Outer Mongolia). They’d never seen the house before, and all my mother had to say was, “Aren’t you the fancy-pants now?” My father commented that I “fawned over” Juliet, and maybe I could send some money Elaine’s way, since I liked to flash it around so much. Who needed a house with five bedrooms when you had one single kid?

We didn’t invite them back. Still, I sent them a Christmas photo of Juliet each year; though they had more than twenty grandchildren by then, I felt they should see her utter perfection.

By the time she was nine, Juliet was doing algebra and reading at a twelfth-grade level. She took ballet and was wonderful, even dancing the part of little Clara in The Nutcracker. She was helpful and thoughtful and funny, doing her chores without being asked, taking on extra-credit projects or tutoring other kids just because she liked to.

In the evenings, when her homework was done, she’d snuggle up next to me on the couch and say, “What are you doing, Mommy?” The fact that she, this bright star, was interested in me . . . it touched my heart in a way I couldn’t explain. Even though she was clearly smarter than I was, she never made me feel unneeded. She asked me to teach her needlework—her room was filled with pillows and sachets I’d embroidered, and her closet full of gorgeous sweaters knit by my own hand. She wanted to learn to knit, too, so we could do it together. I loved to bake, and she loved to help. We picked flowers and arranged them, and the house shimmered with our love.