When Sarah was sixteen, she got the lead in the class production of Bye Bye Birdie. If you know show business, you know that while this show is not without its charms, it’s not exactly a masterpiece of the musical theater. But I couldn’t have been more proud of Sarah. She worked so hard, night after night after night. The rare times she was home, I’d find her sleeping in odd positions, odd places—draped over her desk or dozing with her hand on the phone like she’d just been about to call a friend and hadn’t quite made it. I loved to look at her while she was sleeping: the soft darkness of her hair, touched with light, so like Cal’s; the smooth slightly freckled skin; the mouth that carried the suggestion of the baby she used to be. Whenever she woke up and caught me staring at her like that, she was wary and out of sorts, her eyes narrowed: “What are you looking at, Mom?” But I stole looks when I could.

When the show finally went up, Sarah was a wreck. She threw up three times before we left the house, as I held her hair back the way I had when she was a little girl. She stared out the window the whole way to school, humming “We Love You, Conrad” over and over under her breath. Cal was meeting us there and, in a surprising show of consideration, was not bringing Caitlin. “You’re going to be great, honey,” I said. “Daddy and I will both be so proud.”

She looked at me for a minute, her eyes clouded with fear, then managed a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

She insisted that I drop her off near the auditorium but not walk in the back way with her so I went straight to the front and found a seat. The auditorium filled quickly, and Cal was, of course, late. By the time he got there, the only seat available was next to me. I moved my coat, my stomach roiling with a combination of nervousness and anger. He didn’t look at me, just said, “Thanks,” and sat down. The skin on the side of my body nearest him felt electrified.

Well, I cried, of course. As soon as those sweet, silly kids started warbling “Goin’ Steady,” tears began rolling down my cheeks. And when Sarah came out, capris and sweater clad, her hair in a bouncing ponytail, and sang “How Lovely to Be a Woman,” I had to start rummaging around in my bag for a tissue. I couldn’t find one, and without a word, Cal handed me his handkerchief. “Here. It doesn’t mean anything deep,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” I whispered back, wiping at my eyes. “She’s just so beautiful. I can’t believe it.”