“Don’t be rude. I came down to tuck you in. It’s bedtime. But never mind. You know I’ve only ever loved you and tried to make you happy.” I pout. I pretend to feel hurt, but I’m used to this treatment since Mary left for college. It’s an unfortunate development.

“Fine. Come in.” She feels bad. Good. Betsy walks to her bed and flops on her stomach. I follow her inside. The walls of her room are covered with her original art, oil paintings of various sizes, mostly abstract subjects, and phrases such as Manifest Abundance and Nourish Your Higher Self.

A light blue dream catcher dangles from the ceiling above her headboard. This is the bedroom of a busy, creative mind. I agreed a long time ago to let her do whatever she wanted to decorate her room. No one really sees it except the two of us. It’s for the best but I don’t tell her that, of course. I’m all support, all nurture.

I glance at the name Mary tattooed on her right wrist surrounded by tiny pink hearts, and bite my tongue. As far as a tribute to your sister, I could think of many better ideas. But we disagree on that, too.

She catches my smirk and pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Dad said you were passed out for the night.”

Charming of David to say such a thing. “Did you two have dinner together?” I hear the questions tumble out of my mouth, the hint of jealousy and judgment in my words.

Betsy rolls onto her back and sits up. If she were a cat, her claws would be out, ready to defend herself. My daughter is intuitive, I’ll give her that. She says, “No, we didn’t. I guess he was with his friends and I was out with mine. I mean, after art class.”

“Of course he was. How was art class?” I’m grateful she doesn’t add too bad you don’t have any friends, Mom, as she’s said before. She’s watching me as usual. She’s learned from the best.

“Oh, great.” She smiles. Suddenly I know she’s hiding something. But what could it be?

I need to ask her about the email I received from school. “Volunteer Day is Tuesday. Do you want me there?”

Betsy considers me. “Did you go to Mary’s Volunteer Day?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Okay, sure, why not? I’m in charge of painting the backdrop.”