“Great. Take it. And why are you going out with Brad? You told me he was a loser. So high school. I guess you just lied about that, too.” I stood up and stomped off into the kitchen. I needed to get a grip. Resume control of the situation. Fighting about a dress wasn’t smart. And it wasn’t about the dress. Truth be told, I was more mad at myself than Mary in that moment.

As I stood in the kitchen I heard Mary hurrying out the door, high heels clacking on the stone floor, as her father called after her, “You know what it’s really about. She’s jealous. That’s all. Have fun. Love you.”

His good cheer fueled my rage. I stepped around the corner. “You promised not to ever let this happen. How could you?”

“It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not about the dress,” I hissed, my hands clenched in fists.

“Mary finding her birth mom, that’s normal. She’s an adult. She can make her own choices, and she has. If you keep trying to control her like this, try to keep them apart, you’ll lose her. You’re being ridiculous, acting like a child. Elizabeth is a good role model, a doctor.”

“I forbid it. All of it,” I had said, but it was too late to stop them. They’d been scheming since they connected. Elizabeth James was going to steal my daughter.

Rage boils in my veins again, right now, just remembering how I’d been deceived. My hands clench, my jaw aches with tension. It was the one thing I demanded: the one thing he promised when motherhood was thrust onto me, when I agreed to the choice that ended my career. And now I know there was even more to the story. My husband had sex with Elizabeth James. A one-night stand at his parents’ house.

My husband is Mary’s father. I’m not sure I can take this. I realize I’m crushing the dress in my lap, balling it up in anger. I stop, smooth the creamy silk across the back seat. I take a deep breath as Sam pulls into my driveway. I paste on a smile and meet Sam’s eyes in the mirror.

“See you tomorrow, Mrs. H.?” Sam opens my door and helps me out. I must look confused because he adds, “The graduation committee? You volunteered, remember?”

“Busy week.” I nod.

“Betsy wants you there, right?” Sam closes the passenger door but doesn’t move. “Good mother-daughter mojo.”

Betsy doesn’t care if I help with graduation. We don’t have any mojo.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll text you if I change my mind. Or she does. Thanks, Sam.”