"Just pick up the pieces and move on," Meg said in that I've-made- my-point voice only a mother possesses.

During the lengthy exchange, I'd hunkered silently at the kitchen table. I'd managed to remain Switzerland, not gesturing once for a refill of coffee from the decanter by Meg's elbow.

Stephanie, my thirty-five-year-old daughter, wore a yellow terry cloth bathrobe. Barefoot, she stood five feet from her mother, weeping.

"You d-don't understand." she whimpered.

"What? That a ten-year marriage is over?" The gold flecks in Meg's eyes flared. "I saw this coming, Steph. I'm not stupid."

I hadn't, but then Meg often accused me of burying my head in sand. A week earlier I'd answered the phone and heard Steph cry, "I'm coming home, Daddy, and not going back." Bewildered, I handed the phone to her mother.

After hanging up, Meg said. "Our daughter will arrive tomorrow."

"Why's she coming?" I asked.

Pursing her lips, Meg slowly shook her head. "I'll let her explain. I've a house to get ready."

Since her arrival, I'd listened hard to whatever Steph chose to tell us when she wasn't in her bedroom weeping behind closed doors.

Meg swung her gaze to me and scowled. She pointed at my cup. I nodded. Seconds later it was filled.

When Meg looked at her again, Steph was chewing on an end of the robe's belt.

Meg spoke softly. "You have two strong legs, Steph. Use them."

Steph's cheeks flushed. "How? To go where?"

"Start by getting a job. You're now a single mom, and Billy's coming soon. You both can stay with us but only until--"

"I'm on my feet again." A choked laugh. "But what do you expect me to do?"

"What you did in California. Teach."

"It's April, Mom. There are no jobs and any positions for next year are likely filled."

"Sub."

"Can't. My Illinois certificate expired years ago."

Meg, her hands soldered to her hips, turned again to me. "You talk to her. I've said my piece."

I pointed at the basement door. Moments later Steph followed me down to my man-cave.
***

"This place hasn't changed much," Steph said. "You still have your trains. Are there more or less since I saw them last?"

She had squeezed onto a stool by the train-lay-out, a huge plywood platform that occupied 80% of the basement that stretched beneath the whole length of the house. Meg's laundry was enclosed in the other 20% closest to the stairs.

"I change or add a building occasionally, but can't do much about the scenery or tracks. The cars themselves are older than you are, but I've added a few engines. Up on those shelves over there. See?"

Steph smiled, a rare commodity these past few days. She had my height and lean build, but her best features--that heart-shaped face, the eyes, and that great smile--were her mother's. Her hair was uniquely her own and changed in length and color every time I saw it. These days it was mousey brown and hung just over her shoulders in tangled strands.

"So what do you think I should do, Daddy?" Another trait she shared with her mother was her directness, at least with me. "And don't hedge like you do around Mom."

"Give me some facts, Steph. I've tried to catch what you've been saying, but I'm all muddled. Are you divorced or just separated?"

"Divorced. It's final. I'm getting child-support, no alimony. When he sells the house, I'll get half." Her smile had faded, but her eyes were dry.

"Your mom said Billy's coming. You got custody?"

She nodded. "Jeff was wonderful. We never squabbled, and he's agreed to come here for Christmas, Billy's birthday, and his three-week vacation this summer. It was--is--an amicable break-up." A small smile reappeared.

"Then why?" I knew I was glaring.

"Irreconcilable differences is what's on the papers."

"What the hell does that mean?" I barked. "He cheat on you?"

She shook her head vehemently. "And neither did I."

Heat rushed to my cheeks and the pulse in my neck was already throbbing. The previous summer I'd had a stroke. I didn't want to risk another, so I counted silently to ten.

When I spoke again, it was in a much softer tone. "That another name for . . . for abuse, Steph?"

"No--ooo, Daddy. He's the gentlest man I've ever known. And we're still affectionate, like newly-weds, holding hands . . . cuddling. I--I still love him." Now she was blushing.

"Then why, Sweetie? I haven't a clue."

Her eyes met mine. "His work."

"At the Observatory?"

"Yes. Do you remember a few years back when he discovered that asteroid way out in space?"

Now I returned the weak smile. "Yep. He thought it was hurtling toward Earth, tried to warn me."

"Well, after that he became an astral superstar with colleagues and all kinds of foundations. Then he discovered a planet and things got worse . . . for us. He spent more and more time at that damn telescope. Evenings, weekends. Billy and I never saw him, and when we did we couldn't keep his attention. There were always the journals and books and the endless phone calls to colleagues. Finally, I had enough and confronted him on a rare Sunday afternoon by the pool."

I stared at my trains for a long moment as her words sunk in. There had been a rough patch with Meg and me while Steph was still very young when I was much the same way as Jeff. Only I was a teacher who couldn't stop grading papers at home. One December evening, Meg burst through the closed door of the den, grabbed all the essays on my desk, and threw them onto the burning logs in the fireplace. Not a word came from her mouth, but I did all the apologizing the next morning.

Steph saw something in my eyes, pain or empathy. She slid off the stool and into my arms.

"You spending a lot of time down here these days . . . away from Mom?" she whispered.

I chuckled. "Nope. We're finding more and more things to do together since I retired . . . and my stroke."

Steph backed away, obviously uncomfortable with the S-word. She peered at my set-up.

"Those switches still work the same, Daddy?"

"Yep."

"Can I run one of your trains?"

I grinned. "All of 'em if you like, Sweetie."

The next few minutes she sat on the stool and ran all four trains, separately. I watched. After fingering off each switch, she turned to glance at the staircase, then me. Her lips were a thin line.

"I'm a basket case around Mom. What should I do?"

"You're a big girl. What do you think you should do?"

My daughter frowned.

"That's her point, Steph. You're a grown-up. Have been for a long time, and there's no going backwards."

She flicked away a tear with a finger. "Th--that's harsh, Daddy, and not like you."

She was right. As she grew up and well beyond her teen-age years, I'd always been the overprotective father, shielding her whenever I could from bullies at school, boys I didn't trust, and the stark realities of life-- poverty, hunger, and violence. But she'd chosen to marry Jeff Moran, move to California, and raise a family we seldom saw. She had also chosen to divorce him.

"You keep his name, Steph?"

"No . . . I'm a Berke again."

"But Ms. Berke now, not Miss." I smiled. "That's the first step forward, Steph. Women have come a long way and so have you."

She shook that tangled mop. "Not when it comes to a career. I didn't teach until Billy was in first grade and will have a total of three years experience and little else on my soon-to-be-written resume. I lack any other skills. You've heard the expression 'Those who can't do, teach'."

I watched her self-esteem bleeding away like the colors of just- washed cheap clothing.

"When you graduated from Boston U, you came home with a degree, but no bonafide major. Because of the Recession, the headhunters had disappeared and employment of any kind was scarce. Remember?"

She nodded.

"Did you sit around weeping then? No, you worked part-time in retail until you decided what you really wanted to do--teach! You also took the basic science classes at College of DuPre you'd overlooked at BU. Then you enrolled at West Central College, taking Education classes before student teaching, and voila! You landed a job with the first interview."

She shook her head again, vigorously.

"I was young, single, and dynamic, Daddy. Look at me now-- middle-aged with a son. How many career opportunities do you think there are for women my age?"

I sighed. "You made me so proud then, Sweetie. Do it again."

A timid smile lit up that pretty face.

"I know you're in my corner, Daddy, but Mom? I'm not so sure."
***

The next day I took Steph to The Morning Wake-Up, the coffee house where I met my cronies three times a week. As usual, Steph and her mother had been wrangling in the kitchen when I made the suggestion.

We walked the mile silently. Nothing had been resolved and Billy was arriving that evening.

Before we entered, I said, "Can you find a smile somewhere, Steph?"

She did.

The guys, all former colleagues retired like me, were overjoyed to have a young woman in their midst. And Steph fit right in, laughing and sharing anecdotes about her father that kept me red-faced for nearly an hour.

The place suddenly filled with customers, and Carlotta, the barista/ owner scurried to keep up with demands. She was filling a cup with steaming coffee when it slipped out of her hands and smashed on the floor. Shards flew under our feet. Carlotta screamed something in Spanish.

Steph scooted out of her chair onto her knees and began picking up the pieces. After depositing them in the waste basket, she strolled behind the counter beside Carlotta.

Rudy, a long-time friend, had just arrived and ordered his usual-- Expresso coffee and a cherry turn-over.

"I got it," Steph said and turned toward the machine as Carlotta gawked.

Half a minute later she served Rudy. He beamed after sipping the Expresso.

"Carlotta, this is better than yours," he yelped from our table.

We all stopped talking to watch my daughter handle the requests of other customers. She often laughed, and her eyes glittered with mirth. When the tide slowed, Carlotta left her alone and came to our table.

"She is your daughter?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Where did she learn the Expresso?"

"Ask her. Here she comes."

Because nobody was in line, Steph eased back into her chair.

Carlotta looked at her for a long moment before saying, "Muchas gracias. I am grateful."

Rudy, tapping his empty cup, said, "Where did you learn to make this?"

Steph grinned at me before answering. "After graduating from college, I worked three months at Starbuck's. They wanted to make me a manager, but I--I had other plans."

Carlotta, a small buxom woman not much older than Steph, looked back at her counter and sighed heavily. "I work nights baking and all morning selling. Estoy cansado. I'm tired." Her dark eyes came to rest on Steph's face.

"Will you work for me?"

Steph nibbled her lower lip (another trait shared with her mother) and stared across the table at me. I sat stone-faced, didn't blink. Or breathe.

Then she gave Carlotta a huge smile.

"Yes! My son's coming in tonight, but I--I can start tomorrow. Okay?"

Carlotta clapped her small hands and shouted, "Si! I look for you at six. The back door. That too early?"

Six a.m. My daughter? I struggled to keep my face deadpan and failed.

Steph smirked at me.

"No. I'll be here at five. I want to learn how to bake. And, Daddy, go home without me. I'm staying to see how this place works."

I walked home alone, grinning all the way. Steph finally came home a few hours later to find her mother grinning from ear-to-ear, too.

THE END