“Talia went to watch the TV,” her mother says. She shifts her eyes back and forth as though she can somehow peer beyond the screen’s limits to see more of Maeve’s room. Short-haired and hawk-nosed, she is a tall, broad-shouldered woman.

Maeve takes after her late father; she’s quieter and more delicate in her features. She presses her lips together, then forces a smile.

“It’s going all right, though?” Her voice is a little flat. This is her first professional time, her first time alone in forever; she resents her mother pushing her way into any of it.

“Of course. What about you? Dancing already? Getting your work done?”

Maeve opens her mouth, about to explain that she just arrived, that the time difference means it’s only eight a.m. where she is, that she hasn’t even had a chance to meet with the program director, much less get a key to her studio, and that, really, this should all be evident as it’s been less than twenty-four hours since she left the kids and drove herself to the airport—but she holds back. “On the agenda for today,” she says instead. “I’m barely out of bed. It’s early here.”

Her mother tips her chin, stern-faced. “Mmm.”

Maeve instantly regrets the honesty. Her mother, who’d woken Maeve every day before dawn through childhood, wrapped her ankles a million times, counted out her pre-breakfast workouts, policed her eating and sleeping through twelve years of ballet school, and beyond.

She’s silent now, her tight expression pasted in place.

“Look—” Maeve impulsively turns the laptop to face the window, hoping the camera will catch the view. “It’s beautiful here.” The center is nestled in the backcountry between high ridges; it’s like standing in the middle of a crown, jeweled peaks jutting up on all sides.

Her mother’s voice cuts through the crisp air. “Maeve! What are you doing? Are you still there? I can’t see you anymore.”

Maeve takes a breath and swivels the screen back around. She offers a wide, accommodating smile. Camouflage. This call is ostensibly for the kids, but let’s face it: it’s really for Maeve.

“Sorry,” she says. “I thought it would work. Can you call them back? The kids? I really wanted to say hi.”

Her mother doesn’t even turn her head.

“They don’t need you, Maeve,” she says. “Let them play. You can say hello tomorrow.”

Maeve watches as her mother leans into her iPad, and then the call is over. She stays there a moment, staring at the now-blank screen. Then she takes a deep breath and sticks her tongue out.

Childish? Sure. But it feels good.