Maybe David will take me to our new home tomorrow, and then we can step through the front door together. Or, better yet, he’ll swoop me into his arms and carry me across the threshold. Okay, no, he won’t. The wine is making me a little giddy, combining with the itty-bitty Xanax I took to help with my nap, no doubt. No matter how he tells me the good news, I can’t wait.

I rinse the coffee mug in the sink. I’ll go downstairs and tell Betsy it’s bedtime in a friendly, warm voice. I will reignite our mother-daughter bond. In my mind, Dr. Rosenthal nods and says, Good idea, you need to take care of your only daughter, be there for Betsy, her curly salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down. She twirls her black-rimmed glasses in her right hand, before placing them in their case for the night.

The doctor is not here. I know that. But she would be pleased I am being the mother she wants me to be.

I make my way to the stairs and grasp the handrail tightly, reminding myself that the number one cause of accidental deaths at home is falling. Six thousand people trip and die annually in the US. At the bottom of the stairs I stop to remember the “girls only” phase as if it was yesterday. Mary in fifth grade and Betsy in fourth grade decided their floor would be girls only and taped a sign to the steps to that effect. I was welcome, David wasn’t. The way it should be, but it didn’t last long.

I dart past Mary’s closed bedroom door, stop in front of Betsy’s and turn the knob. It’s locked, as always. David threatened to have a locksmith make a master key years ago, but we never did. Never will now. I knock on the door.

“What?” Betsy sounds mad. I think she might have a temper. She always was the difficult one.

“It’s Mom.”

The door opens and Betsy stands in front of me in an oversize USC sweatshirt—Mary’s, I presume—with a smirk on her face. “What did I do to deserve this midnight visit? If you’re trying to gossip about something—or someone—you can forget it. I’m going to sleep.”

Betsy thinks I am a gossip, but I’m not. I share important information, things she needs to know. She should be glad she can rely on me. She’s running out of time to learn. “You have a very vivid imagination. I’m not a gossip.”

“No, you just share negative things about people, keep us guessing. I’m sure that’s not harmful at all.” Betsy makes a chuckling sound and steps away from the door.

I wonder if I’m allowed in.