“So we’re painting the backdrop, where kids take party photos. It’s kind of retro, a soda shop. Like 1950s. Don’t ask me, I didn’t decide the theme,” Betsy says as she leads us through the crowd, head down. She isn’t waving or talking or smiling to any of the other kids. I know she’s embarrassed I’m here, but she’d get questions galore if I was a no-show. It’s better this way.

I’m just like the others, supporting my only surviving daughter, I mean graduating senior. Some of the moms spot me, and the murmur of sympathy, the hint of danger, the undercurrent works its way through the gym. Or maybe they’re jealous of my thin body, my tight-fitting yoga clothes. Sarah stands a few tables away. She waves. I wave in return. I hope she doesn’t force me to “catch up” with her daughter, Liz.

Betsy stops at a long cafeteria table. Paint tubs and brushes are lined up like a linear vision of the color wheel. “We’re a subcommittee of two, at least for now.” There are hundreds of kids and parents swarmed around at least twenty tables. Ours is the only one without a crowd.

I reach for Betsy’s hand and squeeze. She’s such a loser. “This will be great. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have any friends to help. All we need is each other. You should always remember that. I’m all you need.”

I smile as Betsy tries very hard not to roll her eyes and pulls her hand away.

“Although, now that I look at it, can we find anyone to help? That’s a big mural for the two of us.” I’m calm, no-pressure mom. Just asking a simple question. Without Josh in the picture, the text messages coming in for her have been few and far between. It’s odd, for a teenager. But my spyware picks up all social media accounts and text messages. Betsy must just be a loner. Poor thing.

“We’ll be fine. Everyone is busy.” Betsy hands me a paintbrush. “Start over there with the stool. Black seat. Silver stand. I’ll handle the ice cream sodas.”

As I paint, my intuition is zinging. Pinging. A dormant maternal instinct aroused. Betsy is a better actress than I realized. Just now, if somebody glanced our way—and believe me, they are—they would think Betsy is glad I’m here at Volunteer Day, happy we’re working together side by side. But I know she despises me. She pitied me this morning in the kitchen. Both she and David made fun of me and the anonymous note. I watch her. She is my daughter. Her eyes focus for a moment on the work, and then she’s scanning the crowd. Who is she looking for?

“What?” Betsy stares at me.