And for a while, I was right. Up until age ten or so, when her desire for independence started showing. It was the little things at first: not wanting me to kiss her in front of friends; needing personal space. But she was still princesses and ponies and ballerinas—little girl dreams and little girl dramas. Everybody said she was the perfect teenager, the rare one who didn’t turn into a rebellious hellion overnight. I often said it myself. But last night . . . last night she sullied that absurdly Pollyannaish image beyond repair. I wasn’t experienced or sophisticated enough to handle this—whatever it was. It was mind-boggling, and there were no easy answers. Hell, I didn’t even know the right questions.

I had married the only man I’d ever made love to. I’d gone through four years of high school and two years of college with my virginity intact. Maybe it was because I was a prude, or maybe it was because I wasn’t given an option otherwise. The boys weren’t exactly kicking down my door, and even if they did, Daddy would have chased them away with his shotgun. He really was that archaic stereotype, clinging to outmoded chivalric notions of virtue, and protecting his daughter at any cost.

How different things were now. How different my experi-ences were from Aria’s. I’d imagined a parallel life for us; we were always so much alike, after all. We got along so well, shared the same interests. I’d always thought our relationship to be more like gal pals than mother and daughter—fluid and easy. Boy, was I wrong. I clearly had no idea who she was. In the face of my sleeping daughter, I could no longer recognize the little girl who sucked her thumb and fell asleep with a board book in her tiny, chubby hands.

“Honey,” I whispered, not sure I should wake her, but too worried not to try. I sat next to her, in the crook of her bent knees. I swept her sweaty hair out of her face, pressing my palm to her cool forehead. “How you feeling, sweetie?”

Her eyelids fluttered open, then squinted back shut.

“My head hurts so bad. Can you get me some pain medicine?”

“Sure, honey. But we need to talk about last night.”

She groaned, curling into the fetal position and holding her stomach.

“I think I’m going to be sick, Mom. Can we talk about it later?”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I feel like I’m dying. Am I dying?” She opened her eyes and grimaced. I recognized that hungover plea for sweet death and smiled. I might have been a prude in high school, but I drank my share of hunch punch.

“No, honey, you’re not dying. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Are you okay after what happened with Ryan?”