She stood there too long, then turned and went back onstage, where she stared at a sea of unfamiliar faces. She tried to smile, she really did, but for once her cast-iron will failed her. She heard the quiet murmuring of the crowd; it was the sound of sympathy. Behind her, Dr. Tillman was talking, filling the void with words she could neither follow nor understand. She realized that he was keeping the show going since they were live.

“I just wanted to help her,” she said to the audience, interrupting him. She sat down on the edge of the stage. “Did I do something wrong?”

Their applause was loud and went on and on, their approval as unconditional as their presence. It should have filled up the empty places in her, that had always been their role, but now the applause didn’t help.

Somehow she made it through the rest of the broadcast.

Finally, though, she was as alone onstage as she felt. The audience had filed out and her employees had all left. None had had the courage to even speak to her on the way out. She knew they were angry at her for ambushing Johnny, too.

As if from a great distance, she heard footsteps. Someone was coming toward her.

Dully, she looked up.

Johnny stood there. “How could you do that to her? She trusted you. We trusted you.”

“I was just trying to help her. You told me she was falling apart. Dr. Tillman told me that drastic situations call for drastic measures. He said suicide was—”

“I quit,” he said.

“But . . . tell her to call me. I’ll explain.”

“I wouldn’t count on hearing from her.”

“What do you mean? We’ve been friends for thirty years.”

Johnny gave her a look so cold she began to shake. “I think that ended today.”

________

Pale morning light came through the windows, brightening the white-painted sills. Outside, seagulls cawed and dove through the air; the sound, combined with the waves slapping against the shore, meant that the ferry was chugging past their house.

Ordinarily, Kate loved these morning noises. Even though she’d lived on this beach for years now, she still loved to watch the ferries pass by, especially at night when they were lit like floating jewel boxes.

Today, though, she didn’t even smile. She sat in bed, with a book open in her lap so that her husband would leave her alone. As she stared at the pages, the type blurred and danced like black dots on the creamy paper. Yesterday’s fiasco kept playing in her mind, over and over. She saw it from a dozen angles. The title: Overprotective mothers and the teenage daughters who hate them.

Hate them.

Crushing your daughter’s tender spirit . . .