December 14. I hardly want to write it down, but I should probably make a note of the fact that my daughter doesn’t want to see me or spend time with us. It gives her a headache. Then she complains that we are skipping her. Then she wants to come on Sunday, after a brunch she is scheduled to go to. Nothing comes of it. We happen to meet her on the street with her mother. She says, dismissively: It’s complicated.