“I can’t paint, but I’ll try.” I can paint as well as Betsy can. I focus on what appears to be a new piece of art hanging on the wall next to where I stand. It looks like a thick, bright red heart. It’s dripping a rainbow of colors that pool into a black sea at the bottom of the canvas. I don’t enjoy abstract art. I like realism, clarity. Not this interpretive style Betsy has concocted. I should tell her it is good but it’s not. Secretly I don’t think she has much talent. But a good mom would never say that to her daughter, and I’m a great mom.

“You don’t like my new piece?” Betsy challenges me. She tries to stir me up. Don’t you just hate it when your teen tries to push your buttons? That’s why God made us smarter than them.

“It’s nice.” I meet her eyes. I smile, sweetly.

She laughs. “Whatever.”

“You know what, you’re right. It’s not my favorite. I just think you could do better. This looks like blood or something. It’s just dark.”

“Wow. An artist paints what she feels, what she knows. It’s subliminal, emotions. You just don’t understand.” She shakes her head. She hasn’t moved from the bed. I don’t think she’s frightened by me, not like I was with my mom. I’ve never hurt her physically. That’s when it’s scary. This little temper of mine, well, it’s nothing compared to my mom. She doesn’t even know how ugly this could be between us. You’ve seen the horror show of moms and teen daughters who despise each other? I have, too. I lived it.

Betsy has no idea just how fortunate she has been.

In fact, it’s almost as if she pities me. She shouldn’t. It’s weak. It’s an emotion that won’t serve her well in this life, certainly not around me. And soon, she’s going to need to be strong: she’s about to enter the cold, hard real world.

I’m not sure how to respond to her silence, so I stare at her and shrug. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Sure you have.” She chuckles again. I know she thinks I do nothing but mope around in our home all day. I guess that is all she sees of me.

I glance at the door across from where I stand. It leads to the back patio. Both girls’ rooms have exterior doors and an external stairway leads to the front, outside courtyard. This is how Betsy comes and goes as she pleases. I should have turned the doors into windows before the teenage years. It’s too late now.