I was thinking of all that when Monica had prompted me on the phone. “Ally? Would it be possible for you to take Dylan with you, if Beth agrees?”

“I don’t think so, no,” I’d said, my tone firm but also full of regret. “It’s a very hectic weekend… a lot of moving around… and my daughter…”

“I’ll see if I can find some respite carers.” Monica’s voice was brisk; she knew when not to push. A few hours later, she called me to say she’d found an older couple in Middletown who would take Dylan for the weekend. She didn’t tell me anything else, but already I had an image of some broken-down hovel with a grouchy old couple, and I nearly blurted that we’d take him to Boston, or that I wouldn’t go.

But of course I couldn’t do that. I’d finally called Emma back and she’d sounded so dreary on the phone, expecting me to back out of the weekend. “You’re not coming, right?” were the first doleful words out of her mouth. I couldn’t let her—or Nick—down. Or Josh, for that matter, although when it came to my son and the six hundred dollars I’d found in his drawer, I felt paralyzed, my mind frozen into a terrified stasis. I couldn’t think about it, and so I hadn’t, which felt like a terrible oversight. I had to tell Nick about it. I had to find the time.

Now, as we watch Dartmouth score a touchdown, I still haven’t let myself think about that money at all, and yet at the same time it feels like I’m always thinking of it. It’s there in my mind, like a lingering shadow. Why on earth does he have it? Does it belong to someone else? Has he been tutoring kids or mowing more lawns than I realized…? There has to be an innocent explanation for that money. I feel guilty for wondering for even a second that there might not be, for making it a thing.

“Emma’s going to meet us here, right?” I ask Nick, not for the first time, as I scan the bundled-up crowds along the side of the field. There is a jolly mood of slightly snobby camaraderie between everyone that I’d encountered when we’d come for a prospective parents’ weekend last May, a sort of smug, well-heeled attitude of having made it at last.

Last spring, I’d been thrilled to be part of that exclusive club, to join in the cabal of satisfied smugness, but now it all just makes me feel annoyed and restless.

“Yes, she’s coming, Ally,” Nick says as he stamps his feet to keep them warm. “She said she was. She’ll come when she comes.”

We’d seen Emma for a freshman families’ brunch that morning—an impressive buffet in one of the college’s oldest buildings. Emma had nibbled a bagel and spoken very little, and I hadn’t been able to help notice how thin she looked. She’d always been willowy, but the wrists poking out of the frayed cuffs of her sweater looked positively scrawny, and her face, usually heart-shaped and lovely, looked gaunt. Weren’t freshmen supposed to gain weight?

I hadn’t said anything about her weight, not wanting to fuss. Emma has always been highly motivated, highly strung, and while we’ve never really argued seriously, managing her moods sometimes feels like a bit of a tenuous high-wire act. Too sympathetic, and she gets annoyed and huffy. Too unbothered, and she becomes wounded and teary.

Over the years, I think I’ve figured out how to pitch it mostly right; of course I’ve had my missteps, as every mother has, but I’ve learned how to manage my daughter without seeming to do so. It is only now, as I reflect on how powerless I feel in this moment, that I wonder if managing someone is really ever

a worthy goal.

This morning, while she picked at her bagel, I tried to act as if her silence was normal, and Nick filled it in with paternal bonhomie, while Josh kept sneaking glances at his phone. It all felt so much less than I wanted it to—where were the jokes, the laughter, the bonding and fun? It was challenging to get Emma to say anything more than “fine” or “okay.” While other students were still milling around with their parents, Emma said she had to meet some friends and she’d see us at the football game.

“She’s with friends, she’s having a good time,” Nick says now, in answer to my silent worry, and he gives me a reassuring smile. “This is what we’ve always wanted for her.”

I know that, and yet it doesn’t feel the way I expected it to. I glance at Josh, who is here on sufferance and standing next to me looking as bored as ever. Football is not his sport, and I know he feels self-conscious because he’s clearly not a college student, and all these suddenly, seemingly mature freshmen are looking down on him laughingly, or so he thinks. I doubt they’re taking much notice of him at all, ensconced in their own happy bubbles.

I know I need to ask him about the money, but I don’t know how. Start serious or keep it light? Assume there’s a reasonable explanation, or prepare for the possibility that there isn’t? And, of course, I should tell Nick, but somehow I haven’t done that either.

I let out a heavy sigh without realizing it, and Nick gives me a sideways glance, a combination of concern and faint annoyance.

“Ally? Everything okay?”

“Yes.” I sound unconvincing even to myself.

“Are you worried about Emma?”

“A bit. She seemed so quiet. And didn’t you think she looked thin?”

Nick considers this for a moment. “Harvard is intense. We knew that.”

His matter-of-fact statement causes me to instinctively recoil with worry. “Do you think she’s stressed about it? The academics?”

“Probably, a little?” Nick shrugs. “I mean, Harvard.”

“I know, but…” I lapse into silence as I consider the possible causes of Emma’s stress. She worked hard all through high school, and yes, there was definitely some anxiety involved, but, stupidly, perhaps, I thought we’d be past all that now. Once you’ve been accepted to Harvard, you’ve made it, right? “I wish she could talk to us about it.” Emma used to talk to me about everything. Well, most things. And sometimes it took some patience and prying, but still. We’ve always had a good relationship. I really do believe that, which is why things feel so strange and uneasy now.

I shift where I stand, trying to get some feeling into my freezing feet. I can’t concentrate on the game, because even though it’s between Harvard and Dartmouth, it’s still football and I’ve never liked it. Vague fears keep swirling through me—Josh’s money, Emma’s quiet, Dylan. I purposely haven’t mentioned Dylan to Nick and yet somehow that is a worry, too. Why can’t we talk about him normally? Why do I always feel like mentioning him annoys Nick in some way? And how is he coping, in respite care?

When I dropped him off at the respite house yesterday afternoon, he clung to me and cried, the way he had with Beth the week before, and it took all my effort not to cry, too. The couple having him for the weekend seemed very nice—grandparent types with a calm and soothing manner. But it was still a change, and it made my heart ache to walk away from him as tears streaked down his cheeks. At least he wasn’t screaming. Nick didn’t even ask how it went.

I glance at him now, my handsome husband—light brown hair with distinguished salt-and-pepper sides, a still-strong jaw and friendly blue eyes. He’s forty-seven, but he looks good, keeps himself fit. He’s clapping now, his gloved hands making a muffled thump, as he shouts encouragement to Harvard’s side. He fits in here effortlessly, and I feel like I don’t. I think, on some level, I’ve always felt like an imposter as an adult. I have the right clothes, and mostly the right hair when it isn’t frizzy. I have the right house and the right husband and definitely the right kids, and yet somehow, at the heart of it all, I feel wrong.

The thought, coming to an almost empty-nester at aged forty-six, feels incredibly depressing. Am I having a midlife crisis? Is that what this is about? Or is it something more?

“There’s Emma!” Nick starts back, towards the crowd, and I follow, with Josh shuffling along behind me.

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