“Ewww,” she says, but she doesn’t protest when I pour out the acrid contents of her cup. I heat a quantity of whole milk in a saucepan, adding a little vanilla and cinnamon when it starts to froth, and present it to her with a flourish. She wrinkles her nose appreciatively. “This actually smells kinda delicious.”

“It is delicious,” I say. “My mom used to make it for me when I was little if I was bummed out. I thought it had magic powers.”

“Nanna’s the nurturing sort,” she says and then grins wickedly. “Not that you’re not, Mom. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I gesture toward the milk. “I’m nurturey. Exhibit A right there.”

“Well,” she says and giggles. Even though she’s mocking me, hearing anything resembling a sweet peal of laughter out of this girl is cheering. I pour myself a cup of milk too and clunk it against hers.

“Happy Christmas break.”

“Oh, man,” she says. “I’m gonna sleep ’til noon. Every day.”

A scalding film adheres to the surface of the milk, but in identical motions we blow on it, sip, and grimace at the heat, prompting Rorie to laugh again. She has the same rollicking, musical laugh as her father, and for a moment I’m adrift, caught in another of these recurring interludes of disbelief that Daniel has missed his daughter as she passes through the rest of her childhood phases on the way to adulthood. Gap-toothed, glitter-obsessed elementary student; gawky, giggly middle schooler; hostile, occasionally sappy teen; thoughtful, earnest almost woman—if only he could see her now, for even a moment. What will our daughter be in a year, in ten years, in twenty? What are her motivations, her beliefs, her attributes, her goals? What kind of mark will she leave on the world?

“When I was little,” the current Rorie says, breaking into my reverie, “I never wanted to be anything like you.”

I snort. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“I don’t mean it as an insult,” she says. “Well—I did mean it as an insult at the time, because let’s face it, you are deeply uncool and you are always on my case. But now I can see it’s beyond cool that you do all this stuff to save people’s lives. That’s, like, a really important thing, Mom.”

“It’s like an important thing or it is an important thing?” I ask in my most pedantic voice, and then Rorie and I both burst out laughing at my caricature of myself. If she’s become more thoughtful, then I’ve become more self-aware. Having a child who points out your flaws will do that for you.

She takes a slurp of her milk and turns to me, unaware there’s a foamy white mustache above her lip. “Mommy,” she says.