I have only two hours. I get them twice a week. It’s not like I can leave my eight-year-old with the teenager down the street. But Michael pays child support, and I use that money for respite care, so that twice weekly a specially trained person comes to watch Evan. One of those days, I go to the grocery store, pharmacy, bank, doing all the things I can’t do with Evan in tow. That was last night. Tonight, my second night off for the week, I drive to Friendly’s.

My daughter is waiting for me there.

Chelsea sits in a back booth; Michael’s across from her. He’s wearing a light summer suit over the top of a striking blue Johnston & Murphy shirt. The suit drapes his muscled frame nicely. Obviously, he’s been keeping up with his weekly boxing habit. You can take the boy out of the neighborhood, but not the neighborhood out of the boy.

When Michael spots me weaving my way through the crowded dining room, he puts away his BlackBerry and slides to standing.

“Victoria,” Michael says.

“Michael,” I answer.

Same exchange, every week. We never deviate.

“I’ll be back at six-thirty.” He says this more to Chelsea than to me, bending down, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Then he’s gone and I’m alone with my daughter.

Chelsea ’s six. She has Michael’s dark hair, my fine features. She holds herself tight, tall for her age, mature for her years. Living with an older brother like Evan can do that to a girl.

“Have you ordered?” I ask, sliding into Michael’s seat, placing my purse beside me on the red vinyl.

She shakes her head.

“What looks good?” I sound forced. It’s like this every week. I have one evening to try to prove to my daughter I love her. She has six evenings that tell her otherwise.

Chelsea closes her menu, doesn’t say anything. A balloon pops across the room, and she flinches. By the terms of our divorce decree, Michael’s supposed to provide counseling for Chelsea, but I don’t know if he’s doing it. After all the experts we saw for Evan, he’s soured on that sort of thing.

But Chelsea isn’t Evan. She’s a lovely little girl who spent her first five years never knowing if her brother would hug her with affection or attack her in a psychotic rage. She learned by age two when to run and lock herself in the nearest bathroom. By three, she could dial 911. And she was there, eleven months ago, when Evan found the crowbar in the garage and went after every window in the house.

Michael and Chelsea left the next day. It’s been me and Evan ever since.

“How’s school?” I ask.

She shrugs. I have to honor the mood, so I reach across the table for the cup filled with crayons. I flip over my place mat and start drawing a picture. After a moment, Chelsea does the same. We color a bit in silence, and I tell myself it’s enough.

The waitress comes. I order a garden salad. Chelsea goes with chicken fingers.

We color some more.

“I get to be the flower girl,” Chelsea says abruptly.

I pause, force myself to find yellow, add to my gardenscape. Wedding? The divorce was only finalized six months ago. I knew Michael was seeing someone, but this… It seems undignified somehow. A gross display in the middle of a funeral.

“You get to be a flower girl?” I ask.

“In Daddy and Melinda’s wedding. It will be during Christmas. I get to wear green velvet.”

“You’ll… you’ll look beautiful.”

“Daddy says Melinda will be my new Mommy.” Chelsea ’s not coloring anymore. She’s staring at me.

“She’ll become your stepmom. You’ll have a stepmom and a mom after the wedding.”

“Do stepmoms like to eat at Friendly’s?”

I can’t do it. I put down the crayon, stare hard at the tabletop. “I love you, Chelsea.”

She picks up her crayon and returns to coloring. “I’m mad,” she says, almost conversationally. “I don’t want a new mom. Sarah has one, and she says stepmoms are no fun. And I don’t like green velvet. It’s hot. The dress is ugly.”

I say nothing.

“I want to rip the dress,” she continues. “I want to get scissors and cut it up. Cut, cut, cut. Or maybe I could drip paint all over it. Drip, drip, drip. Then I wouldn’t have to wear it.” She looks up again. “Mommy, am I turning into Evan?”

My heart twists. I take her hand. There are so many things I’d like to say to her. That she’s special, unique, beautiful. That I have loved her since the moment she was born. That none of this is her fault, not her brother’s illness and certainly not the Sophie’s Choice made by her mother every day.

“You’re not your brother, Chelsea. Evan… Evan has things in his head no one else has. His brain works differently. That’s why he gets so mad he can’t control himself. You’re not like that. Your brain isn’t his brain. You are you. And it’s okay if you get mad. Sometimes, we all get mad.”

“I don’t like Melinda,” Chelsea says, more plaintive now. “Daddy’s always at work. He’s no fun anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Weddings are stupid. Stepmoms are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why can’t Evan go away? Daddy says that if Evan would just go away…”

I don’t answer. This is where Michael and I diverge. He wants his children to be fixable, whereas I’ve come to accept that our son has an illness no doctor can currently cure. Evan’s still our child, however, and just because he’s troubled is no reason to throw him away.

The waitress arrives with our food. She slides two oval plates onto the table. I rearrange my salad. Chelsea pokes at her french fries.

“Evan misses you,” I say after a moment. “He wishes you could both go to the park.”

Chelsea nods. There were times she and Evan were close. When he was calmer, in his sweet, charming mode. He would play dress-up with Chelsea, even let her do his hair. They’d play hide-and-seek, or form a rock band using all the kitchen pans. Those times, he was amazing and I imagine she misses that big brother. I also imagine there are plenty of other incidents she wishes to forget.

Chelsea is why Michael left me. He claimed my inability to institutionalize Evan was putting our daughter’s life at risk. Is he right? Am I right? How will we ever know? The world doesn’t give us perfect choices, and I couldn’t figure out how to sacrifice my son, not even for my daughter.

So here I am and here she is, and I love her so much my chest hurts and I can’t swallow my food. I just sit here, across from this quiet little girl, and I try to will my love into her. If I force my love across the table, form it in a tight little ball, and hit her with it again and again, maybe she will feel it. Maybe, for one instant, she will know I love her more than Evan, which is why I had to let her go.

She’ll be okay. Evan, however, needs me.

We draw some more. I ignore my salad. She eats french fries. She tells me she got to try the violin at music camp. And Sarah and her got into a fight, because Sarah said Hannah Montana was better than The Cheetah Girls, but then they both agreed that High School Musical is the best ever and now they’re friends again. Dance starts in two weeks. She is nervous for the first day at school. She wants to know if we can go shopping together for school clothes. I tell her I will try. I can tell from the look on her face she already knows it won’t happen.

The waitress clears our plates. Chelsea perks up at the thought of ice cream. She goes with the junior sundae. I decline, though ice cream would be good for me. I could use some weight on my frame. Maybe I should go on an ice cream diet. I will eat a gallon a day and balloon out to three hundred pounds. It’s not like anyone would care.

Self-pity gets me nowhere, so I reach across the table and hold my daughter’s hand again. Tonight, she lets me. Next week, I’ll have to wait and see.

She’s going to have a second mother. Some woman I’ve never met. I try to picture her, and my brain locks on some twenty-something blonde. Younger, prettier, perkier than me. She’ll help Chelsea pick out clothes for school, maybe braid her hair. She’ll be the first to hear of Chelsea ’s school dramas, perhaps give her advice for handling her equally dramatic friends. They will bond. Maybe there’ll come a week when Chelsea won’t want to come to Friendly’s anymore.