It happened on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon in April. I was standing at my kitchen sink in Madison, rinsing out a coffee mug, with the phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder, when my daughter said, “Mom, don’t come this summer.”
I actually turned off the faucet. The kitchen went quiet. I could hear the refrigerator humming. I could hear a lawnmower somewhere down the block, the first one of the year. “What do you mean, don’t come?” Lauren sighed, the way she’d been sighing at me since she was thirteen. The sigh that said I was making something…
