"Mom! I don't need a jacket!" I heard how sharp my voice sounded and felt bad. But why wouldn't my mother listen to me? Why did she keep treating me as if I were eight years old, like Maria, instead of thirteen and old enough to know whether or not to wear a jacket?

I could tell my mother was about to say something else, and I braced myself, but the telephone came to the rescue with a shrill beep.

"I'll get it!" I said hastily and swooped down the hall and grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

"Shanny?"

"Hi, Dad. How's it going?"

"I'm not going to be home for dinner.

Would you tell your mom for me?"

So what else is new, I wanted to say. Instead I said, "Okay."

"Work," said my father.

For a moment I thought he was talking about me, asking if I'd finished my homework. I almost told him that I had the math nailed down. But as he went on, I realized he wasn't talking about me at all.

"It's gonna drive me crazy. But what can I do?"

"Okay," I said again.

"Right. Well, I've got to go. See you guys later."

"Okay," I said for the third time. "Goodbye."

But my father had already hung up the phone. I put the receiver down slowly and walked back to the kitchen.

My mother was stirring something on the stove, staring off into space.

"Mom?"

She looked around. "Oh. Shannon. Phone for me?"

"It was Dad," I said.

"He won't be home for dinner, right?" asked my mom.

"Good guess," I said.

She smiled, a little smile that didn't reach her eyes. "I suppose it's some trial, as usual."

My father's a lawyer with a big firm. He works a lot. And lately, he had missed a lot of family dinners. Even more than usual. Some case he'd been working on for a long time was just coming up for trial, a big case that had even been written up in the newspaper.

He barely had time for his Rotary club meetings and board meetings and jogging and lunches and dinners with clients.