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including MTV. The music and dancing were as foreign as another planet to him, but maybe that’s where he wanted to be—totally removed from his present surroundings. He fixed on Sinead O’Connor, mesmerized by the Irish woman’s bald head and plaintive voice. Then he sang to me, “Nothing compares to you,” which was flattering and confusing.
    Tick said, “Mom, I mean it. He can have my room.”
    â€œWe’ll think of something,” I said. “I just want you to know that things will be different.”
    â€œMom. Everything’s different every day all the time around here,” said Tick. “I’m talkin’ really different.”
    This was also true. The kids had gone from their beautiful house with mom and dad at home, to camp in the woods, to “the museum” where their dad lived with The Mop, to the dollhouse where their grandmother died and their grandfather and aunts and uncles were driving everyone to distraction—all within about a year’s time. The thought of it was dizzying.
    The kids were cheerful and excited—and in the moment. I charged ahead, packing and planning for the great Adventure. I, too, was in the moment, just happy to be getting out of this one and into a happier one in Florida.
    I didn’t think about the turmoil that could come of this. There weren’t enough moments in the day for that.
    Dad and I met his accountant, his lawyer, and his banker. Joe Glotzbach, the accountant, told Dad he didn’t need two houses. He owned the dollhouse and also part of the Florida cottage with his two sisters. He didn’t need the dollhouse with the antiques, condo fees, and utility bills.
    Joe’s office had the atmosphere of a funeral parlor and a country club bar all at once. The comfy maroon leather arm chairs on metal ball feet moved around easily, and the mahogany walls meant serious business.
    â€œSell it,” Dad said. “Sell the dollhouse.”
    I looked at Joe, who was chuckling, but I felt a wave of panic.
    â€œWait,” I said. “What if you all of a sudden, you know, decide you want to come back?”
    â€œI’m not coming back. My home is with you.”
    Joe raised his eyebrows and smiled. “He’s always known what he wants.”
    I clung to the idea that we were all making the right choice, building this new life, all of us together. Swept along in the rush of it, I felt I had little choice. And Dad wanted to come along. He had his good and bad moments, and I was always looking for the father I knew, the strong man, the funny one. It was energizing to hear the lucid Dad. If we were in this together, how could things go wrong?
    I was emptying a drawer when Margie Everett, one of Mom’s best friends, knocked on the front door, her bubble head, wavy through the leaded glass. Margie had a small motor in her brain that kept her mouth in perpetual motion. She was dear, but I wished she’d go away.
    â€œGreat,” I mumbled to myself. It was a frantic morning,with the realtor, the kitten Tick found in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, and a to-do list of sorting, retrieving, cancelling, cleaning, and calling. This was a time in which I rose to new levels of multi-tasking. If I could have used my feet to dial and hold the phone, I would have.
    Dear, sweet Margie. I didn’t have time to chat, but, at once, I was compelled to put a good face on it. My appearance was another consideration altogether. I had not even brushed my teeth, and I wore an old robe that had a hole and a coffee stain plopped among the faded daisies.
    â€œOh, dear, I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Margie.
    â€œNo, no,” I lied, knowing perfectly well I looked mighty disturbing.
    Margie was dressed in a fine navy-blue St. John knit suit, her signature look. She pointed one slim, spanking-new Ferragamo over the doorstep, while I stepped back into the dim foyer. She handed me a white box