I t was eight in the morning in Minneapolis. Margaret Rose Darian, known as Molly to everyone but the remotest stranger, flipped on the TV before she set her daughter's breakfast on the table. “Hurry, Carrie, your eggs are getting cold.” Hearing a muffled response from the direction of the bedroom, she poured the milk and slid the jam jar closer to the plate.

“Morning, Mom, and don't say anything until I explain,” her daughter said in a rush of words.

That snapped Molly's head around from the morning newscast. “Good God! When did you do that?”

“Last evening.”

“That's why you had a scarf on when you came in from Lucy's.” Her young daughter stood before her with pinkened earlobes and small pearl studs in her previously unblemished ears… looking too grown up. “You're too young.”

“I'm eight, almost nine,” Carrie replied matter-of-factly, dropping into her chair. “Amy's had pierced ears since she was four. And Tammy's had them since-”

“I know the list, honey, by heart. You couldn't wait-”

“I waited five years for you, Mom. Look at it that way,” she said, her huge, dark eyes watchful.