Previously:  Nichole performs on a cruise ship as both singer and dancer. After six months, she signs up for another three. During that time, we call Jeff to exchange pleasantries and to let our daughter know that we're trying to support her choice of a boyfriend.

Maybe keeping in touch with Jeff wasn’t a good idea. Did it encourage her to stay with him?  When she decided not to sign up for more time on the cruise, I called him. Apparently, he didn’t know about her decision yet.

"Bet you can’t wait," I babbled over the phone. "She’s so happy to have saved all that money."

Silence. Then Jeff muttered, "Guess I better get a job."

Again, a missed opportunity. I should have asked, "What do you mean?" Instead, I chose to draw my own conclusions, and thereby reinforce my opposition to Jeff. My "save mother- daughter bond" instinct told me to stay out of it. I knew Nichole sent money home to pay her share of the rent, electric and phone bill. But that wouldn’t total four hundred a week for nine months.

If Jeff had quit work and used her money to pay his way, my interference would aggravate her. I could imagine him telling her, "Your mother reamed me out big time, made me feel like a loser. My allergies started up again, and I had a migraine. Adam had to come over and take care of me."

Then Nichole would blame me for making him ill. "Thanks, Mom, for almost breaking us up again."

Déjà vu. Remember the car incident?

Guess it would be easier for her to make it my fault than to admit she had made a mistake in trusting Jeff with her money.

To be honest, this is all conjecture. I never asked Nichole. If she couldn’t see what was happening, maybe it wasn’t there at all.

As I write this, I think that perhaps he used some money for a security deposit on another apartment, one in a better neighborhood. Bob Hope lived in Tolucca Lake, their new address, and so did the racy comic diva, Sandra Bernhard. Jeff met her once when walking his dog. She had a mouth as vulgar as his. But a friendship didn’t ensue.

Jeff and Nichole now lived on the second floor, no apartment on top to crush her in case of another earthquake. Her money went to buy a dining room set and a recliner for you-know-who.

Full of fresh confidence and a more impressive resume, Nichole invested in another headshot, her fifth to date. Rather than return to serving pizza, she took on a job as a part-time nanny to twins of a plush couple. The pay must have been good. My daughter doesn’t care much for children, having witnessed bad behavior of toddlers at the grocery store or at the restaurant.

A half year went by. Jeff went back to his waiter job, and spent free hours either auditioning, working on an underground comic book with freaky characters and obscene language, or drawing bumble bees and daisies for a friend’s childrens’ story.

Finally, he landed a small part in a TV sitcom that aired Friday nights. I can’t remember the name since I never watched it except for the episode with Jeff as a neighbor and ventriloquist. We all held our collective breaths hoping this would turn into a contract. Alas, consistent low ratings caused FOX to cancel the show forever. Jeff had had his fifteen minutes of fame, it seemed.

Nichole appeared in two local public service announcements and won a hundred dollars in a karaoke contest. Disheartened, she quit the babysittiing job and returned to California Pizza to resume her job as waitress. Seeing that her acting career was going nowhere, my daughter registered at a branch of UCLA and began courses for a degree in Speech Therapy.

Nineteen ninety-eight. Nichole and Jeff had been a couple for more than five years. My sister Barbara and second husband Rex were headed for four. Mom was pleased her daughter had a decent man in her life at last. But the center didn't hold for Barbara. She gave her son the news first. "I’m getting a divorce."

To be continued.