Marah stood up and moved forward, twisting her hands together. For all of her grown-up beauty, the fear in her eyes made her look ten years old again.

Kate tried to figure out what she should say. She knew how much Marah wanted everything to be normal, but it simply wasn’t. From now on the words they said to each other would be weighted, remembered. That was a simple fact of life. Or of death.

“I’ve been mean to you,” Marah said.

Kate had waited years for this moment, actually dreamed of it in the days when she and Marah had been at war; now she saw it from a distance and knew that those battles were just ordinary life—a girl trying to grow up and a mother trying to hang on. She’d give anything for another fight, actually; it would mean they had time.

“I was a bitch to grandma, too. That’s what teen girls do: rag on their mothers. And your Aunt Tully was a bitch to everyone.”

Marah made a sound that was half snort, half laughter, and pure relief. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

“Believe me, honey, it will come as no surprise to her. And I want you to know something: I’m proud of your big personality and spirit. It will take you far in this life.” On those last words, she saw her daughter’s eyes fill with tears. Kate opened her arms and Marah leaned down to her, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

Kate could have held on forever, that was how good it felt. For years, Marah’s hugs had been perfunctory at best, or a reward for getting her way. This was the real thing. When Marah drew back she was crying. “Remember when you used to dance with me?”

“When you were really little, I’d hold on and twirl you around until you giggled. Once I did it so long you threw up all over me.”

“We shouldn’t have stopped,” Marah said. “I shouldn’t have, I mean.”

“None of that,” Kate said. “Put down the bed rail and sit by me.”

Marah struggled with the rail, but finally got it down. She climbed into the bed and pulled her knees up.

“How’s James?” Kate asked.

“I’m into Tyler now.”

“And is he a nice boy?”

Marah laughed at that. “He’s totally hot, if that’s what you mean. He asked me to the junior prom. Can I go?”

“Of course you can. But you’ll have a curfew.”

Marah sighed. Some habits were in the teen DNA; the disappointed sigh, it seemed, simply couldn’t be overcome, not even by cancer. “Okay.”

Kate stroked her daughter’s hair, knowing she should say something profound here, something that would be remembered, but nothing extraordinary came to her. “Did you apply for a summer job at the theater?”