“Lucky you. Now you get to spend quality time with the girls you wish were your daughters”

“Where are you off to?” I try to strike just the right balance, exuding friendly interest but not clingy overprotection.

Apparently, I fail dismally.

Devora barely looks up. “Out.” Her voice is flat, but her lip curls, that familiar shield of disdain snapping into place. “I need the car keys.”

A dozen sharp retorts rise to the surface. Who said I don’t need the car? Why do you assume you can just take whatever you want, whenever you want?

I shove them all down.

“Devora, where are you going?”

She exhales, exasperated. “It’s not like there are tons of options near this pathetic camp. Walmart. Maybe bowling.”

Bowling. Right.

She means the pool hall.

I hesitate, weighing my options. Walmart is harmless, but the pool hall — it’s full of the types of people I spent my life trying to steer her away from. But what control do I actually have?

If Menachem were here, he’d give her a flat no. Tell her she doesn’t deserve the car and he’s not going to allow her to go places she shouldn’t be in his vehicle.

But somehow, his refusals never stop her. She finds another way to get what she wants, and all that’s left is a relationship fraying so badly it barely exists.

I know that lectures are not what she needs. That there’s so much confusion and pain lurking beneath the indifferent exterior. And that what’s most important is our tenuous relationship.

So, slowly, I pull the keys from my purse and hand them over.

“Here you go,” I say as I drop them into her outstretched palm. “And Devora, I want you home by midnight.”

Devora’s head snaps up. “Midnight? Are you serious? Let a girl live a little! What do you think I am, ten?”

I inhale, exhale — who knew Lamaze would be more useful for my 18-year-old than for actual labor?

Stay calm, she wants to draw you into a fight. It’s the other voice in my head, the voice of my support group leader swooping in and preventing me from saying something I’ll regret. No matter what happens, you need to be the adult.

I give a tight smile and repeat, quietly but firmly, “Midnight. Have fun!”

She glares, a muscle twitching in her jaw, then stomps past me. There are shadows in the glass window of the old wooden door. Devora peers through the window.

“Mashie and Adina are here,” she mutters. Then, her voice turns sharper. “Lucky you. Now you get to spend quality time with the girls you wish were your daughters.”

My stomach clenches. Not just from the naked hurt in her words, but because… is there a kernel of truth in them?

I give her a weak wave and go to greet the girls. But my eyes are still locked on Devora.

The anger charges the air, crackling around her as she walks off to the parking lot right behind our bungalow. I watch as she climbs into our old maroon Honda. A moment later, the tires shriek as she speeds off.

I manipulate my face into something warm. No jagged edges, no signs of impact. Then I open the door and welcome the girls in.

(Excerpted from Calligraphy: Pesach 5785, Mishpacha Issue 1057)