THE TEARS WEREN’T spilling out of my eyes yet, but apparently I was displaying the glassy, far-off stare my family had come to call “Mommy’s about-to-cry face.” My husband, Steve, sitting across from me at our kitchen table, held his fork halfway to his mouth. My 16-year-old Olivia breathed, “Uh-oh, not again.” And their twin, Sophia, whose humor I count on to defuse many a mommy meltdown, pretended to hit Video on her phone and said dryly, “Hashtag family dinner, teeth-baring emoji.”
Tonight’s trigger? Olivia wasn’t making eye contact with me. I was trying to connect, but they were looking at their sister while answering my open-ended questions. (I’d planned them!) I felt that familiar tingle of despair and thought, “Liz, don’t take it personally.” I reminded myself that, developmentally,…
