Kate sat on the edge of the bed, remembering suddenly all the times this very scene had played out in her own teenage years. Her mother had started every reconciliation with a life-is speech.

She smiled at the memory.

“What?”

“I know we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and I’m sorry about that. Most of the time it’s because I love you and I want the best for you.”

“And the rest of the time, what’s it about then?”

“Because you’ve really pissed me off.”

Marah smiled at that, just a little, and sidled left to make room for Katie, just as Kate had once done for her own mother.

She moved more fully onto the bed and cautiously reached down to hold her daughter’s hand. There were lots of things she could say right now, conversations she could try to knit out, but instead she just sat there, holding her daughter’s hand. It was the first quiet, connected moment they’d spent together in years and it filled her with hope. “I love you, Marah,” she said finally. “It was you, more than anyone else, who showed me what love could be. When they put you in my arms for the first time . . .” She paused, feeling her throat tighten. Her love for this child was so enormous, so overwhelming. Sometimes in the day-to-day war zone of adolescence, she almost forgot that. She smiled. “Anyway, I was thinking we should do something special together.”

“Like what?”

“Like the anniversary party for Dad’s show.”

“You mean it?” Marah had been begging for this opportunity for weeks. Kate had repeatedly said she was too young.

“We could go shopping together, get our hair done, get beautiful dresses—”

“I love you,” Marah said, hugging her.

She held on to her daughter, reveling in the moment.

“Can I tell Emily?”

Before Kate had even said, “Sure,” Marah was reaching for the phone, punching in numbers. As she headed for the door and closed it behind her, she heard Marah said, “Em, you won’t believe this. Guess where I’m going on Saturday—”

Kate closed the door and went to her own room, thinking about how quickly things changed with kids. One minute you were an old Eskimo woman, floating away from everyone, forgotten; the next you were climbing Mount Rainier, stabbing your flag in the snow. The changes could leave you dizzy sometimes, and the only way to survive was to enjoy the good moments and not dwell too much on the bad.

“You’re smiling,” Johnny said when she entered the room. He was sitting up in bed, wearing the drugstore reading glasses he’d grudgingly purchased.

“Is that so remarkable?”

“Frankly, yes.”

She laughed. “I guess it is. Marah and I had a bad week. She got invited to an overnight party with boys—I still can’t believe it—and I told her she couldn’t go.”

“So why the smile?”