I feel like Jessica now. I feel as though I’m still just a child and I’ve somehow failed to mature. I’m forty, yet I feel fourteen.

Make that three going on four.

Does anyone else ever feel like a faker? Does anyone else ever feel like a pretend grown-up, someone who’s masquerading as her mother or the nice woman next door?

I sometimes suspect we spend a fortune on hair and clothes because it makes us look the part even if we don’t quite know how to feel it on the inside. You know, dress for success and you’ll get the job. Put on the right face, say the right words, and you’re an adult.

But I realize now I haven’t been an adult, not a real one. I react, not act. I make decisions on the defensive. My emotions aren’t controlled. My thoughts aren’t controlled, either. And tragically, there’s no mother here anymore to tell me what to do, no parent to demand I behave.

That’s why I’m the adult now. Even without the right outfit, hairstyle, and makeup.

At home I pay Lisa, and after she leaves I lock up and head upstairs, turning off lights on the way.

I check on Jessica, who is asleep on top of her comforter, her stuffed animals strewn about her. I slide her beneath her covers, dim her night-light, and then head to William’s room.

William’s bedroom door is ajar, and the closet light is on. I step into his room to check on him. He’s sitting on the floor of his walk-in closet next to an acrylic storage box containing his thousands and thousands of baseball and football cards. This is his favorite thing to do late at night when he can’t sleep, and he’s never been a great sleeper. Late to bed, early to rise, engrossed in his world of sports and his fear of unlikability. He may be a sports nut, but he’s the most likable kid I know. No one tries harder, no one cares more, and if William weren’t my kid, I’d still want to know him. “Hey,” I say, pushing his closet door wider to squeeze myself in. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

He looks up, light brown hair tousled. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“I did. I just wasn’t tired.”

“William, you’ve got swimming and basketball tomorrow. You’ve got to sleep.”

He scratches his forehead, cheeks flushed from his industrious labor inside his closet. “I’ll skip school.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You do great in school.”