She looked at her sister.
Then at me.
Then at Tom.
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"Do you know what happens when everyone you love keeps threatening to leave?"
Her voice dropped.
"You get very good at giving them reasons to stay."
Sophie started crying.
So did I.
Emma looked at me.
"And you always tell me how mature I am."
That hurt more than anything else she'd said.
Because I had.
For eight years.
Emma's so mature.
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Emma understands.
Emma never makes things difficult.
I'd been praising my daughter for making our divorce easier on me.
I just hadn't called it that.
"I thought you were," I whispered.
Emma's eyes filled.
"I was 17, Mom."
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Just four words.
Seventeen.
A child learning how to keep adults in the same room.
Sophie wiped her face.
"Why didn't you tell us?"
Emma looked exhausted.
"Because I wanted all of you there."
Then she looked at Tom.
