You made a mistake. This time, you’ll fail. You’ll never be enough for her.

And I cried, my head bowed over her perfect, precious face, and swore in that hospital bed I wouldn’t let her down.

I blinked, the distant memories slowly fading away. My surroundings took hold and I walked over to the French doors that led to the patio.

My daughter had been arrested for drugs.

I pressed my palms against the cool panes of glass and stared outside. The gardens were in full bloom, opening up to the spring sun with a hungry thirst to be reborn. I’d never had the inclination or patience to involve myself in gardening like my mother, preferring to hire out and enjoy the cultivated, clipped blooms after they’d been weeded and pruned and watered. As I stared at my pristine gardens, I wondered if I’d made a mistake yet again, like I had with my daughter. It had been easier to shroud myself within the safety of work and farm out the hard stuff to experts rather than diving into the mess. Maybe the dirt, thorns, and weeds were required to be dealt with before I’d be able to appreciate any future beauty. Maybe if I didn’t do it myself, I was just a fraud, like that man I’d observed long ago in that ad agency, his success only a pale imitation, hidden behind ego and a partner who’d done the actual work.

Dear God, what was I going to do?

I pushed away from the all-seeing windows and made my way into the kitchen. The cold gleam of stainless steel, black-and-white tile, and marble countertops usually soothed me, but right now I felt only emptiness as I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and sat down on a high-backed white leather chair.

I’d failed in the worst way possible. My daughter was smoking pot behind my back. Her name could appear in tomorrow’s paper—not to boast of an academic scholarship, but included on the local police blotter. All the hard work to get her poised for a successful college career tipped precariously toward disaster. But even the threat of community humiliation, academic discipline, or loss of opportunities meant nothing next to the knowledge that Allegra was in trouble.

Oh, I knew most mothers never believed their children could be doing drugs, drinking in the basement, or having sex without their knowledge. We figured we knew our kids. They’d grown in our bellies and were ripped out of our bodies. We watched every single moment of their life unfold in front of us. We bathed them, cleaned their poop, and introduced them to the world on our terms. But it meant nothing now.