Floral skirt flaring, one of the few girlie things she owned, Susan twirled across the dance floor. Music blared, lights came from every direction, and a man with a cherubic face and the body of a god kept smiling at her. She felt free. She felt right.

The furthest thing from her mind was Derrick and all his hurts; she was past it. The last concern she could imagine was the drama at work with Karen; that didn’t matter on a Saturday. She felt confident. She felt complete.

Doing the dance of avoiding other dancers, Rashawna came gingerly towards her mouthing something urgently and cupping something in her hands. Susan just laughed, caught her by the wrists and spun the both of them.

Pulling her friend close, Rashawn yelled above the din, “Your phone has been ringing for 20 minutes! I think it’s your mom!”

Huffing and fuming, Susan carted the phone to the ladies room, not even attempting conversation as she went.

Once in the relative quiet she asked, “Mom? What is it?”

“It’s…it’s your father.”