The family joke is that if I had stopped at two children, I'd be the most insufferable mother who ever lived. My two oldest daughters have never given me moment's pause — well maybe a few moments — but I saw none of the screaming, slammed doors, sullen withdrawals or general obnoxious teenaged behavior I've heard about (or exhibited myself as a self-absorbed young lass). Never had to set curfews, never had to mete out punishments for missing said curfews. How clueless I was.

But daughter number three — bless her little heart — has given me a run for the money from the very start. Didn't want to be born; we had to induce. Once born, she didn't want to leave my arms — or the house. Where most babies are lulled to sleep in their car seats, K would scream bloody murder the entire time. I remember one wretched ride where I compulsively kept reaching for the radio knob, as if that could turn her volume down.

Now it's just the opposite. At 15 with her first beau, it's all about The Boy, and she can't wait to get into his car. She doesn't want to spend any time with me — and certainly not with my beau and His Boy, four years younger. And I understand her need to be with her guy, her first love, so it's a delicate dance between her legitimate needs and ours.

So I thought she was being particularly magnanimous, when S and his son came over one Saturday afternoon and she agreed to go iceskating with us at a nearby rink. Afterwards, we came home, baked cookies together. When she said she'd like to skip going out to dinner with all of us to meet her guy, I thought it was a reasonable request. But S got a little pissy, which annoyed me, so I sweet talked her into it. We had a lovely dinner, then she went off with The Boy, S and I retreated up to my room for a movie, his son settled with video games downstairs.

I awoke at 3 am with a start. I was sure K was home by now, but something made me check.

Not in her room.

Not downstairs.

I called her cell. She answered after three rings, sobbing her apologies. "We fell asleep watching TV, we're on the way home, I'm sorry mommy, I love you." And so on.

When she arrived home, we hugged and she whispered her apologies into my hair, over and over like a prayer. We could talk in the morning, I told her. 

But of course I couldn't sleep.

When S woke up, I told him what had happened. He glared at me. "What? Do you mean to tell me that my son was alone all that time?"

Not: "Oh my God, are you okay? Is she okay? You must have been going out of your mind with worry."

I'm thinking: Is this guy out of his mind?

Also: I want this guy out of my house, right now.

"Of course he wasn't alone," I retorted perhaps a little too harshly. "We were here."

"Well he could watch TV alone at my place. What's the point in coming here if he's going to be alone?" 

Indeed. At what point do we decide it is pointless.