On a sunny Saturday in mid-March, I was teaching Alice how to make my husband’s famous blueberry pancakes when my phone rang with Rebecca’s ringtone.

“Good morning,” I answered, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I helped Alice flip a perfectly golden pancake.

“Mom, we need to talk.” Rebecca’s voice held an unfamiliar note—not the practiced charm she usually employed when asking for something, nor the tight control when things weren’t going her way.

She sounded defeated.

“Is everything all right?” I asked, instantly alert.

“Not really.