Breaking the Bank by Yona Zeldis McDonough

I’m screwed up, that we’re the most screwed-up excuse for a family you’ve ever seen, and that I’m supposed to be appreciative, penitent, and, above all, thankful for this unerring assessment, this essential information about who we are.
    â€œShe’s going to see the psychologist after she’s seen the principal,” the teacher said. “That’s in addition to her regular appointment later in the week.”
    Mia didn’t remember when Eden’s appointment with the psychologist was; she had blotted it out from memory, from consciousness, like the teacher’s name.
    â€œIt’s on Thursday,” the teacher prompted. “Thursday morning.”
    â€œThursday. Right.” Mia tried to sound like she had known this all along. She wanted to get off the phone with this woman and to speak to Eden herself. “I’ll try to leave work by four and pick her up from afterschool early.” She eyed the manuscript on which she should have been working this very second, and did not see how leaving early would be possible.
    â€œThat would be a good idea,” the teacher said. “I’m sure we’ll be talking more about this, but right now, my prep period is over, so I have to go.”
    Thank God,
Mia thought. She clicked off the phone, looked at themanuscript again before putting her head directly down on toxic waste. But she didn’t stay down for long. If she was going to get out of here by four, she’d better hustle.
    E DEN WAS SULKY and unrepentant when Mia tried to discuss what had happened at school.
    â€œBut that story was entirely made up,” Mia said. She was still in her cleaning mode, and was gathering all the glass and plastic bottles that she hadn’t actually recycled but that she hadn’t thrown out, either. So far, there were quite a number of them.
    â€œBig deal. It could be true.”
    â€œWell,
could be
is a lot different from
is.
You know that, Eden.”
    â€œMy teacher is always saying ‘use your imagination.’ I was using mine. Why is everyone getting so mad?”
    â€œBecause you’ve been hitting, pulling hair, and cursing.”
    â€œThey deserved it,” Eden muttered.
    â€œEden!” Mia said sharply, setting the bag down hard. From the sound it made, she could tell she had probably broken a bottle or two. “There is no possible excuse or rationale for your behavior. It was totally out of line. I know you miss Daddy and wish you could see him more often, but—”
    â€œIt’s your fault that I can’t!” Eden said, raising her voice to match Mia’s. “You! You did it!” She pressed her face into Petunia’s grungy udders and began to cry.
    â€œThat is so untrue,” Mia said. But of course she felt it was true, every incriminating, vituperative word. Even though she had not wanted a divorce—had pleaded with Lloyd to see a couples therapist, in a vain attempt to salvage their marriage—she still felt culpable and deficient because of it. She sat, stricken, watching Eden sob. What could she say to make it better?
    â€œI don’t care,” Eden mumbled into Petunia’s belly. “I miss him so much.” She lifted her face and wiped her eyes with the back of herhand. “Every minute of every day. Every second. That’s how much.”
    â€œI’m sorry, baby,” said Mia. She wished she could gather her daughter into her arms the way she had been gathering the damn bottles. “I’m so sorry.”
    L ATER, AFTER E DEN was asleep, Mia replayed the ugly scene in her mind. But going over all this was getting her nowhere. She had to push ahead to what was next, not dwell on what she couldn’t change or fix. She began making a mental to-do list:
    Stop cursing so damn much. At least out loud.
    Call teacher.
    Call principal.
    Call school psychologist. Make appointments with all three. Also learn names of all