That was another thing. There was no more Daddy, or Dad, or even your father when Mom spoke. There was only Rob, her husband. She was a pale comfort to us in our grief, but “at least you two have each other.” Meaning she was suffering much more than we were. And maybe she was, but it didn’t seem fair for one of us to burst into tears and then have Mom cry harder, and longer, and louder.

That’s how I changed. I became cynical and tougher, though really, the change had started in the dental supply room.

A conglomerate bought Dad’s practice, and Tate Dental Offices became Oak Hill Dental. The hygienists stayed on, a sixtysomething-year-old woman who didn’t believe in nitrous oxide was hired, and Dr. Dan moved down South a couple of years after Dad died.

Every once in a while, I thought about Dorothy...wondering if she knew about Dad. If she was sad.

And then one night, I bolted awake and decided something.

I had seen wrong.

They hadn’t been kissing. Hugging, yeah, maybe, but not kissing. Dad would never cheat on Mom. It was me. I was wrong. My romantic fantasies about Dr. Dan had infused my little brain with all sorts of tawdry soap-opera images. That was all.

I needed to mourn my father, that wonderful, sweet, gentle man. He couldn’t be a cheater anymore. I mean, he never was, anyway! Right? With my mother an abject wreck, I had to love my father again, think of him as that nearly perfect guy. It was too hard to fight, even silently, against Rachel and Mom and their unadulterated grief.

During my freshman year of high school, I took an elective called Design Basics, and suddenly, finally, I had something to do at home to distract me from our house of mourning. I asked for sewing lessons for my birthday, and a tiny Italian woman taught me how to make French seams and rolled hems, gussets and buttonholes. Rachel went to college for graphic design; she was also artsy, and she stayed close by, going to college in New Paltz.

When it was my turn, I headed for the city, to Parsons. To anyone in the Empire State, Manhattan is the shining star, shimmering at the mouth of the Hudson like Oz. Within a week, I knew the subway systems, the best place for Thai food and had already introduced myself to every one of my professors. I became a clichéd New York City college student, wearing black clothes and ugly, heavy shoes, carrying my sketch pad with me wherever I went, proudly living in a refrigerator-sized apartment with three other students. I went home often but briefly, grateful to slip back to the city, the city, where already I was distinguishing myself. Every guy I dated, I imagined marrying, but nothing stuck, and I had my heart broken more than a couple times.

Then, between my undergraduate and master’s degrees, I headed for Sydney for a six-month internship at Chanel Australia. There was a huge snowstorm, and my flight was delayed by nineteen hours, give or take. Rather than crash on a friend’s floor or go home to Cambry-on-Hudson, I decided to tough it out at JFK, wandering with the throngs of fellow strandees and airport staff as the leaden skies pelted us with fist-sized snowflakes. I sketched four dresses and a suit, entertained a little Korean boy by drawing him anime characters, then got up, my ass numb from sitting on the floor for so long.

I wandered through the vast terminals, watching people, checking in with my mom and sister to assure them that I was fine and didn’t want to come home, that I’d be on my way soon enough. The sun-drenched glory and good cheer of Sydney seemed as far as Pluto, and my eyes grew gritty with fatigue and filtered air.

And then I saw him.

Dr. Dan Wallace, DDS, my father’s old partner, sitting at one of the many crowded bars. Still looked like Patrick Swayze, too. When I tapped him on the shoulder and told him who I was, a smile sliced his face, and he hugged me tight, smelling of whiskey and Irish Spring. When he pulled back, he was little teary-eyed. “Join me for a drink,” he said, and I realized with some degree of affection that he was half in the bag.

“Have you been stuck here long?” I asked.

“Twenty...” He looked at his watch. “Twenty-seven hours, more or less. Bartender, a drink for my friend here. Hang on, Jenny, are you old enough to drink?”

“I am,” I said, ordering a glass of merlot. “I’m twenty-two now.”

“No!” Dr. Dan exclaimed. “That doesn’t seem possible. Oh, Jenny! You’ve gotten so pretty! Well, you always were a beautiful girl.”

He had an impressive memory, given that he’d worked for my dad for such a short time. I told him about Rachel, her graduate degree in graphic design, her work for an online start-up. Mom was happy, I lied. Doing well. And how about himself?

“Oh, I’m married, very happily,” he said. “Got two kids, a girl and a boy.” He pulled out his wallet to show me pictures, and they were awfully cute. His wife was lovely. It dawned on me that Dr. Dan wasn’t even forty. Not really that old at all, now that he and I were both adults. He lived in Macon, Georgia, though he remained a Yankee at heart.

“Your father was the greatest guy,” Dr. Dan said, slurring the slightest bit. “He really took me under his wing. Gave me a chance.”

“I know he liked you so much,” I said.

“Well, I looked up to him, that’s for sure. He was everything I wanted to be. The original family man. Beautiful wife, you girls, that gorgeous house... You know, I was so glad when he gave up that woman. ‘Rob,’ I told him, ‘you have everything. Don’t shit where you eat, even if it’s not my place to say so. Is she worth ruining your marriage?’ And see, even though I wasn’t married at the time, I knew. He and your mom, they were the real deal.”