Despite the cast on her leg and arm and a big purple bruise on her forehead, Jessica’s looking remarkably good. She’s talkative and bubbly and rather giddily points out all her flower and balloon bouquets. Jessica’s ballet class has sent balloons, and Anne and Philip and their kids sent flowers—daisies in a cute white painted basket. There’s a massive stuffed elephant with an even bigger “Get Well” Mylar balloon tied to its gray trunk from Daniel’s parents and a dozen long-stemmed pink roses from Daniel. Even William got her something—a jar of jelly bears with a Ty Beanie Babies giraffe.

“What did you bring me, Mom?” Jessica asks, scooting back in her bed.

“Myself.”

“Are you serious?”

Isn’t she the spoiled princess? I lean over, kiss her forehead. “I’ve a few gifts I picked up in Hawaii, but they’re down in the car. Do you want me to go get them?”

Jessica beams. “Yes, please!”

Although Jessica looks to be doing well, her doctor wants to keep her one more day for observation. Daniel comes by that evening with William, bringing bags of McDonald’s Happy Meals. (Isn’t it ironic that he can buy them crap but I can’t?) While the kids and Daniel have dinner together in Jessica’s hospital room, I sneak home, shower, change clothes, get Jessica’s favorite blanket, and grab some books to read to her.

Daniel and William leave once I return to the hospital, and I pull my chair close to her bed to read to her. She’s big into picture books right now and has a whole stack of favorites that I brought from home. Detective LaRue, Walter the Farting Dog, Skippyjon Jones. We’re rereading Skippyjon Jones in the Dog House now, laughing at the antics of the naughty Siamese kitten who thinks he’s a Chihuahua.

William will tolerate me reading some pictures books, but for the most part he’s moved on. I miss the nights we used to read our books together, looking at the pictures, admiring favorite illustrations, enjoying the clever writing. I love picture books. Adults don’t get books full of bright, colorful pictures. Adults have to grow up.

“Mommy, I’m worried about you.”

We’d been looking at the picture of Skippyjon Jones coloring on the wall, creating “his finest piece of artwork ever,” and this seems to come from nowhere.

I lower the book to better see Jess. “Worried, why?”

“I’m worried you’re settling.”

“Settling?” How does she even know what settling means?

Her blue gaze is somber. “You want this person in Hawaii to be your boyfriend, but he’s your first boyfriend since you and Daddy divorced, and maybe he’s wrong. Maybe he’s not smart enough. Or nice enough. Maybe he will hurt you.”

I’m shocked. Completely taken aback. “How would he hurt me?”