"It's a promise ring," Abigail explained. "All the kids are getting them. It's a statement that lets people know you plan to remain a virgin until you marry."

Fiona smiled and slipped the ring on her wedding finger. At the time, the smile had seemed sincere, but now Abigail felt it had been a sly smile, a mocking smile.

"Thanks," Fiona said, examining the ring. "What a cute idea."

Now Abigail could see that the word cute had been issued in a mocking way too. Fiona had been making fun of her for years, and Abigail hadn't even known it.

Parents were blind. She'd often said so herself, but she'd been talking about other people. She'd ridiculed parents who didn't have a clue about their children, but she'd never thought she could be one of them. She and Fiona had a special bondv a special relationship. They could tell each other anything.

Their relationship had been a lie.

Fiona was wearing the ring now.

Had she laughed about it to the boy who'd vrtittetv the note?

"Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?" Abigail asked.

"I'm going to be late for school."

"How long has this kind of thing been going on?"

"You don't really want to know. Just forget it. Forget all about it. This is my birthday, remember? My birthday."

Even though their district had a perfectly acceptable bus system, Abigail had always taken her daughter to school. She had to be the best mom she could be.

"I want to know. As soon as you tell me," Abigail said woodenly, "I'll take you."

"This note?" Fiona shook the wrinkled paper. "This note isn't from a boyfriend. I don't have a boyfriend. I don't want a boyfriend. This is from a guy who is dumb but good when it comes to fucking. There. Is that what you wanted to hear? Do you feel better now?"

Abigail was afraid she might throw up. Like a robot, she went to the kitchen and got a drink of water. Then she came back, put on her shoes, and drove Fiona to school.

"Don't forget Mary," Fiona said when Abigail flew past the Cantrell house.

She braked, backed up, and honked. Did Mary know? she wondered. Was Mary a friend of the bitch or the sweet girl?

Brown-haired Mary came running across the lawn and threw herself into the backseat, laughing and breathless. "I thought you guys were going to forget me! Happy birthday, Fiona!" She reached over the back of the front seat and tugged playfully at Fiona's hair. "Sixteen! Finally!" Mary herself was seventeen. She'd started school late.

Was this all an act, part of the charade?

Abigail blocked out their chatter, driving but unaware of turning corners or obeying traffic lights. She must have done okay, because nobody ridiculed her. She let the girls out near the front of the school.

"Bye, Mrs. Portman!" Mary said, giving her a wave as she ducked to see inside the car. "Thanks for the ride!" The girls spun away, latching arms, laughing, and falling into each other as they skipped up the wide walk.

Abigail wanted to go home and crawl into bed, pull the covers up over her head. Her husband was out of town, but it would do no good to talk to him. They had grown apart years ago. A man with no personality, he was the ghost who occasionally showed up at their home. Tonight, if he thought about it, he would call his daughter and wish her a happy birthday, saying he was sorry he couldn't be there. Now Abigail wondered if he'd ever really wanted to be there.

She wished she'd never read the note. She wished she'd picked it up and slipped it back into Fiona's pocket. And now, even though she had read it, she guessed that Fiona would be perfectly willing to continue as if this morning had never happened.

People did that all the time. That's how they got through their days. But no, Abigail thought with anguish. Not when things had been so perfect. She could never forget, never go back.

It was over. The life she'd known was over because her daughter was her life. She'd read dozens of child-rearing books, so adamant had she been about doing things right. In almost every one they'd warned against getting too wrapped up in your child. Don't give up an important goal for your child. Don't give up a dream job for your child. Don't give up a once-in-a-lifetime trip to Africa for your child.

She'd laughed about that, and she'd secretly looked down upon Blythe Cantrell, who was always busy with her pottery and her art friends and her causes. What kind of life is that for a child? When the mother is never there when her children get home from school?

Abigail's one and only goal had been to be a good mother.

Not a birthday had gone by without Abigail planning a lavish party. Today was no exception. She'd intended to bake a cake herself-she hated it when people didn't bake birthday cakes for their loved ones. What kind of message did that send? But she didn't think she could pull herself together enough to bake a cake. And in years past the message had meant nothing to Fiona, so she went to the grocery store and picked up a large white sheet cake.

Last year she'd decorated Fiona's cake with tiny records and a tiny record player even though she knew most kids didn't play records anymore. Fiona had hugged her and called it adorable. Had she really thought it stupid? Probably.

"Is this for a special occasion? Would you like anything written on it?" the man behind the counter asked.

"Happy Birthday, Fiona."

"Fiona. Great name. Is this for a kid? An adult? What color would you like the lettering?"

"It's for my daughter. She's sixteen today."

"Sixteen. Wow. I remember sixteen. That was a wonderful age."

"Yes," Abigail numbly agreed.

She took the cake home and spent the rest of the day decorating for the party when all the while it seemed she was preparing for a funeral.

She picked up Fiona and Mary after school, dropping Mary off at her house. "See you at the party!" Fiona shouted after her.

"What do you think of the cake?" Abigail asked once they were inside their own house.

Fiona shrugged. "From a store, huh?" She stuck her finger in the frosting, scooping off a glob to pop in her mouth. "Good."

"Better than my cakes?" Abigail challenged, wondering what Fiona would say, what part she would play.

With her head tipped, she gave it some thought. "I don't know. Maybe a little." She turned and ran upstairs.

When she came back down a half hour later, she was wearing a dress Abigail had never seen. It was low-cut, showing cleavage, and the hem was so short her panties would show if she wasn't careful.

"You aren't wearing that dress for the party."

"Who says?"

"I say."

"It's my birthday. I should be able to wear what I want on my birthday." Angry, she flounced across the living room to the front door.

"And you certainly aren't going outside with that on."

Fiona smiled sweetly, opened the door, and left.

Abigail went to the window and watched as Fiona headed into the woods behind the house. She watched her disappear.

Abigail paced the kitchen, waiting for her to return. Waiting, waiting. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, she went after her.

A narrow path led deep into the woods to the tree house. Abigail was almost there when she stopped. Sounds came from the small wooden structure. Laughing and moaning, wild thrashing. Sounds of sex.

Fiona. And a boy. She was using the innocent tree house as a place to meet boys.

Anger rushed hot through her veins, blurring her vision, clenching her hands into fists. She strode across the ground, trampling wildflowers, her feet ripping through vines. She climbed up the ladder. Using a strength she didn't know she had, she grasped two branches and pulled herself up so she stood on the floor of the house. In one corner, on a filthy blanket, was her daughter, her dress around her waist. Between her knees knelt a boy-or a man-with stringy brown hair. Strewn around the room were empty beer cans and whiskey bottles.