“Mom, anything else?” She’s watching me as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. I know she wishes she had my sexy figure, thin build. She has David’s big bones, poor girl. I turn my head, check out my backside looking over my right shoulder. Not bad for forty-two years old.

I remember a question I’d been meaning to ask her, my memory finally coming through. “I haven’t seen Josh lately. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner this week to celebrate graduation?” I haven’t seen him at all, come to think of it. Why didn’t I keep up with them, invite him to dinner? I know they’ve been texting this school year and Betsy is very sweet with him. I just haven’t seen him. I’ve been focused on other things, and healing, of course. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t been through this how debilitating the loss of a child can be. It makes it so hard to keep track of the other people in your life because you’re so consumed with the one who has gone. But I must. I’m the mother. That’s why I have my handy app. And Betsy has used the love word with him in texts. I need to monitor that kind of language.

“We broke up a couple weeks ago. I meant to tell you.” Her eyes focus on a stain on her bedspread. She picks at it with her fingernail.

“What? Really? Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” I blink and stare at Betsy. She seems unfazed.

“It’s not a big deal. I still love him, as a friend. We’ve always been more friends than anything.” She finally stops picking at the bedspread and smiles at me. “The passion was gone. You know the feeling?”

I don’t want to know, no. I swallow. “I always thought you could do better anyway.” Josh seemed perpetually barefoot, smelled vaguely of weed and needed a bath. Even when he was wearing tennis clothes he seemed, well, dingy. I care about Betsy, and who she dates. It’s a reflection on me, everything she does, everything she will do. “So is there anybody new I should know about?”

She meets my eyes. “No.”

“Well, that’s good. You should focus on your studies. Spend time with me. And Dad. You’ll be graduating so soon.”

“Thank God. And I know what you think, Mom.” She’s staring at the ceiling. Telling herself to be patient with me, perhaps? Her frustration zings through the air, hits me in the gut. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

She should watch herself tonight. I’ve already been so disappointed by her dad this evening.