“My darling, Grace from Growing with Grace isn’t a person. She is a product. A bright, shiny silver Bergdorf box with a signature purple bow. That Grace is a rerun of Gilmore Girls. She makes you feel good about your life. She makes you feel calm, like maybe you can pull the disaster that is your family together. Maybe it’s an illusion, but it’s an illusion that keeps you going. Do you know what I mean?”

I stared at her as she pulled up in front of Montoya & Sons Insurance. “That is awful,” I said.

“It’s not awful,” she said. “It’s just the way of the world. Look, it’s fine. I give people an image that makes them want to buy cast-iron skillets and creaseless ponytail holders from companies that pay me to sell them. Everyone wins.”

I gasped. “I love those ponytail holders!”

She put her hand to her own ponytail. “See? I know. If I’m crying in my pjs about my husband leaving me, you’re not buying life-changing ponytail holders. We all lose.”

I put my hand on hers. “Well, you can be real with this follower.”

She nodded. “You can be real with me too, you know.”

I bit my lip. “Well, if that’s the case…”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Look, I know this seems silly, but I’m reading this book about raising an adult, and I’ve really been trying to let Iris fix her own lunch to teach her responsibility and…” Grace was looking at me with such an amused expression that I paused.

“So, you don’t want me making your child’s lunch?”

Something about the way she said it was so disarming that I found myself stuttering. “Well… I mean… I just…”

“So, your daughter who makes straight As and plays three sports and is a member of six clubs and doesn’t get in trouble. She needs to make her own lunch to prove she is a productive citizen?” She paused. “I’m not baiting you. I’m just wondering.”

Well, when she put it that way, it did seem sort of stupid. Iris had a lot on her plate for a fourteen-year-old. All our high-achieving kids did. I looked out the window and then back at Grace. “It’s just that the book said—”

“I wrote a book too, Charlotte,” she interrupted. “And, trust me, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

That made me laugh.