Page 22 of Dear Debbie

It’s funny that they’re so worried about the key. That isn’t the thing they should be worried about me having. At the thought of this, the buzzing suddenly stops.

“Sorry about this,” Sierra says. “I always liked your column. You gave really good advice.”

I hug the legal pad to my chest. “Garrett doesn’t think so.”

“Well, it’s just so important that the paper is family oriented,” she says. “The sanctity of marriage, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s nothing more important than the bonds of marriage,” Sierra says sagely. “So you can’t violate that by telling a woman to leave her husband. And our advertisers feel the same way. Without them, the paper would be done. You know that.”

“Yes,” I say. “I do know that.”

Sierra walks me all the way to the door and makes sure that I leave without a fuss. As I trudge back to my car with my meager belongings, I can’t suppress a jolt of sadness. Even though it was just a silly little local paper, I enjoyed my job. I liked giving advice. My own life has felt like a mess, but when it came to other people, I always seemed to know exactly what they should do.

It’s time to start taking my own advice.

16

The brownies are still in the oven when the front door slams shut.

It’s too early for Cooper to be home. And Lexi is likely frolicking around God knows where with her boyfriend. I checked her location with Findly ten minutes ago, and she was at the Hingham Shipyard. So unless it’s a burglar, which I suppose is possible but unlikely in the middle of the day, it must be Izzy.

“Izzy?” I call out.

No answer. But the footsteps coming from the foyer sound like hers. I pride myself on being able to distinguish the members of my family just based on their footsteps. Izzy’s are quiet but surefooted. That’s what makes her so good at soccer.

Sure enough, a few moments later, my younger daughter’s face appears at the entrance to the kitchen. I turn to acknowledge her, even though she has not yet said one word.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.”

I open the door to the oven to check on the brownies, and the scent of chocolate quickly fills the kitchen. I inhale deeply and sigh. It’s one of my favorite smells.

“Why are you always making brownies?” Izzy complains.

I look at her in surprise. First of all, I am not “always” making brownies. In fact, the last time I made them was nearly a year ago, for a holiday bake sale at her school. And second of all, what child complains about fresh baked brownies? Even Lexi doesn’t find fault in my baking.

“Sorry,” I say. “I guess that means you don’t want any.”

“Ew, no.”

Ew? I can only shake my head, but that’s fine. Even if she wanted to try one, I wouldn’t give it to her.

Izzy is still standing at the door to the kitchen like she wants to tell me something, but she’s completely silent, her backpack lying at her sneakers. It’s unusual because between my two girls, Izzy is the chatterbox. She never stops talking, whereas Lexi always chooses her words more carefully. (Especially in the morning, when talking is verboten.)

“So what happened with soccer?” I ask her.

“Nothing.” She lifts a shoulder halfway as if she’s too tired to actually shrug. “I got sick of it.”

I find that really hard to believe. Izzy has been playing soccer since she was in kindergarten. Every Saturday morning, bright and early, I would drive her to the local middle school where they had soccer practice for the grade school kids. Finding parking during soccer practice was a stressful and sometimes terrifying experience, but as soon as I found a spot, Izzy would burst out of the car in her pigtails and cleats and soccer socks. (I still don’t understand what soccer socks are, but I obligingly bought them every single year.) Practice was her favorite part of the whole week.

So no, I don’t believe she quit.

“Lexi says you got kicked off the team,” I remind her.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I quit.”