I am the working mother, and he is home with them right now. This is why I receive a call from him–not from the school–after the incident has already occurred. First rule of being married to the person who knows me better than anyone on this planet: my phone does NOT ring while I’m at work unless there is an actual emergency. And that is why, as I stand surrounded by fifty students from seventy countries (whose names I spent 36 minutes taping to the backs of seats in preparation for the flag rehearsal), I walk out of the high school auditorium to take his call. That is why, three minutes later, I am picking up my backpack and running out the door, running against the violent spring wind uphill for 1.4 miles to meet my younger two daughters, to intercept their questions before they meet their oldest sister.

All the time I make the dash, I am thinking about what he said. A simple text to a girl whose name neither of us has heard. A quote found online that she was just telling me about yesterday: “Life doesn’t have a Control Z button.” (Our conversation continued with–Me: “What does Control Z do?” Her: “You know, UNDO.” Me: “That’s true!” Smile. Nod. Think of regrets, mistakes, times I wish I could have done something over. Perhaps she thought the same. “Cute quote.”)

And that girl’s email to their advisor: “I think Isabella is having suicidal thoughts.” And her advisor’s email to the interim school dean. And that dean calling her down to the office. And Isabella, first time in her entire school career being called to the office, becoming completely distraught. “Do you want to harm yourself? What is your home life like? How are things with your parents? Do you have friends at school?” And I don’t know what else. All I know is Bruce’s words related to me, of receiving three phone calls while he was in the shower and not understanding the dean’s heavy accent and walking into the school to see our twelve-year-old daughter crying in his office when he arrived, one hour before the school day was over.

And my two young babies, still in elementary: “Why can’t we stay and play, and why are you here instead of Daddy?” “Well, Daddy is home with Isabella.” And the momentary lapse of understanding, followed by questions. “Why is she home? Why isn’t she at school? What happened?” And the lie, one of eleven lies all adults make per week according to Riona’s read-aloud proclamation from her Weird but True book yesterday, “She wasn’t feeling well.” “Well what’s wrong? Her stomach or her head?” (Oh, Mythili). “Her head.” “Oh, I remember this one time when I had a headache and Ms. _____ wouldn’t let me go to the nurse and….” That is my life.

And I need a guidebook for Twelve Years Old. Man I thought fifth grade was hell. No friends, fresh from Spain, a little behind in all her schoolwork, and seeing nothing but pain flash across her face. But tell me, please don’t fucking tell me, that I have carried this child across the world and back with this ever-loving family wrapping its heart around her every tear, her every obnoxious teasing of younger sisters, for her to think at twelve years old that she wants to UNDO HER LIFE.

These are the things I don’t say to Mythili. The constancy of doubts that inundate a mother’s entire existence. The waves, weight of those doubts. Of the Spanish none of us really learned. Of the pieces we had to put back together, a world of debt and a house lost and a new career and a new everything, all sitting in that damn twenty-pound backpack her militaristic school makes her carry every day.

When I arrive home with the babies in tow, I go straight to her, already in pajamas at 3:52, fully engulfed in her fantasy novel. Just like my sister, her namesake. Trying to escape … something. Me? Him? School? The analysis could kill me. (Allow me this small irony). I sit beside her on the couch. “Hey sweetie… you OK?” Mythili pokes at her hair. “Looks like your headache’s gone” and Isabella flashes me the “I-know-Santa-doesn’t-exist” look. And she gets it, and I get it, she’s so my mini-me.

I text her father before I go to Spanish class (already mentioned–didn’t actually LEARN SPANISH while in Spain). “Were the phrases ‘Suicidal thoughts’ or any other such phrases used in her presence today?”

He doesn’t respond. I heat up pasta and wish for another night for this event. “We’ll talk later.”

He fills me in after they’re in bed. “I pulled over when … We talked about it. She knew what it was and started crying all over again, saying she’d been afraid of death her whole life and couldn’t imagine why anyone would do that…”

And he showed me the texts. The girl, the “friend,” didn’t even know at first who it was who was texting her. As soon as Isabella sent the text, the girl asked her if she wanted to kill herself. Isabella’s response: “What? I just thought it was funny.”

Is it me? Us? Our society? My children have lived nothing less than a sheltered life. Barely a PG-13 movie in their entire existence. Is it my daughter who should be pulled from class, made to think these thoughts, or the girl who had the idea in the first place? Why would she so rapidly jump to the conclusion that a silly little Internet quote meant suicidal thoughts? Why must the dean be informed, the school day cut short? Why bring this on all of us in this house, this home, this safety net we have wrapped around the twelve years of her precious life?

These are the questions I cannot answer without my Guidebook for Twelve Years Old. My working-mother-love-them-to-death-father-who-asks-the-true-questions lack of a guidebook. These are the questions I ask you: Does it ever get any easier? If so… when? (Please don’t say deathbed).