The further apart she and Daniel drifted, the more he gravitated toward work. He only talked about people at the practice—the brilliant Anna, whom she had tagged his work-wife out of frustration, or that new receptionist with blouses always two sizes too small.

On the on-ramp to the freeway, the traffic thinned, and she put down her foot. The concrete ribbon stretched into the distance, dry, empty plains shepherding it to the horizon.

Her fingers drummed again as the music powered on. They hadn’t had bad times; their good times were just in the rearview mirror. Their early days were a soaring mountain range—the peaks of joy and the valleys of conflict that always rose to another peak. Always. But they had hit the flats.

The tears welled again. A failed wife. That’s what she felt like.

Marriage counseling had given her the house of her dreams on the cliffs, but it came with a steep price: more of their conversations devolved into pseudo appointments. Daniel couldn’t help but put on his professional hat. Why couldn’t he just be in his own marriage instead of diagnosing it? She wanted to talk with the old Daniel—her husband and not the go-to counselor who fixed people. They had spent more than a decade talking about anything and everything, but now the only safe topic of discussion was ferrying Milly around.

Milly.

Her daughter who each day took a step away from her as she disappeared into herself. Kelly had read every parenting book she could. There had to be more to Milly than the first seeds of teenage rebellion. It looked more like a quiet resignation as if accepting a sad inevitability.

A failing mother. That’s what she felt like.

Kelly left the freeway as the song ended abruptly on aggressive three-part harmony and made way for softer piano. She shut off the radio. Another quick glance in the rearview mirror, and she blinked hard to clear her eyes as she threaded her way through suburban traffic.

Just another few months.

Giving the “110 percent” required of her at work was more than impossible when her heart was somewhere else. In the excitement of receiving the advance from Daniel’s publisher, they’d bought the house on Clifftop Drive. Her dream home, with a kitchen big enough to start her own catering business, had been bought on a promise—his second book being a bestseller too. But it was taking Daniel far longer to write it than he said it would. Longer than she needed. So she’d taken the job offered through her best friend. At least she would be helping people—families in particular. At least it was that way at the start.

Just another few months. But Milly didn’t need her in a few months. She needed her now.