"Is Ellen losing weight?" my husband asked during her eighth-grade Spring Concert. Hearing this from a man who regularly took our daughter out in public with her clothes either on backward or rescued from the Goodwill bag made me pause. I, too, had thought she looked thinner in recent weeks, but knowing she was growing taller and maturing physically had offset my concern. That night I searched the crowd of children taking their places on the risers to sing and realized I couldn't find Ellen. There was a girl in the same blue dress I had bought for her, but she was too skinny to be my daughter - wasn't she?

Impressions flashed through my brain: Ellen's recent remarks about the fat content of nearly every food she ate or didn't eat and her newfound fussiness about clothes. Hadn't she been a bit irritable, too?

"I'll take her in for a checkup," I told Paul. "She needs a new asthma inhaler anyway." A week later, our family doctor confirmed that Ellen had lost 20 pounds since the previous fall.

"Ellen, are you throwing up or not eating?" I asked, when we were alone, my heart pounding with fear. She hesitated before nodding slowly, causing tears to spill out onto her cheeks. Within days, she stopped eating completely and was then admitted, for the first time, to the eating-disorder program at a medical center in our hometown. We were told her stay would only be five days or so, but after thirty days she was still hospitalized and no better. I began to wonder: Was this just a passing incident, or was it an indicator of more serious trouble? Ellen ended up in institutions for over half of the next six months, losing 20 more pounds and missing both graduation from eighth grade and the beginning of high school. I knew what we faced wasn't a temporary problem -- it was a crisis.

There isn't always a specific event we can identify as a turning point, but several mothers clearly recalled a "moment of truth" when reality could no longer be denied. A few said (in retrospect) they had played "ostrich," trying to deal with what might be happening with their daughters by "burying their heads in the sand." The following story illustrates how one mother was forced to acknowledge that her daughter was leading a secret life.

A Moment of Unanticipated Clarity
The realization stung me as if I'd been slapped hard across my face. I understood in a word and a look what I'd avoided for a year: I'd been betrayed. My 17-year-old daughter, Sara, had lied to me and, because I wanted to believe her, I lied to myself. The way it happened was inevitable in a year marked by emotional opposites -- hope, fear, peace, conflict, promises, disappointments -- all melted together. Then, in a moment of perfect stillness, the reality I had been avoiding struck with absolute clarity.

I was lying in our backyard in the hammock. My husband was puttering in the garden. My younger preteen daughter, Katie, was in the house giggling with her girlfriend as they tried on clothes for a pool party they'd be going to later on.

I dozed off, waking to the sound of Sara returning from work with her friend Zoe. What I knew about Zoe bothered me: she had a car, didn't work, and had no rules to live by at home. Sara looked tired. Stubborn wisps of hair refused to stay in her topknot, and she had deep circles under her eyes.

Sara had spent the previous night at Zoe's house. Before leaving, she had given me the evening's schedule that included some time, but not much, with her boyfriend, Josh, who supposedly had other plans with his guy friends.

"Aren't you happy, Mom, that I'm going to have a girl sleepover, just like you always hoped I would?" she had asked. "We're going to do each other's makeup and hair and rent some movies. So don't worry, Mom. It'll be fine." She had been uncharacteristically chatty but I missed that part of our relationship so much I didn't question it -- in fact, I was grateful. Now, they were making a quick stop at home before going out again. They came over to the hammock to say "hi" and tell me what was up. I asked what they did during the sleepover the night before.

"How did Sara ever get you up to get her to work by seven this morning, Zoe?" I commented. Sara blurted out, "Josh took me."

Realizing what she had said, she quickly came up with an implausible story of how a boy who I know can never wake up for anything went to Zoe's house at 6:30 a.m. to get her to work. I hadn't understood before. It was only then, when she turned on me, adopting the familiar arrogant tone of voice, and gave me a look that said "Don't push this, Mom," that I realized what she was telling me. Her life was not what I thought it was, and she wanted me to stay out of it.

In that moment of pain, the sun could no longer touch me. I lay there thinking back to other conversations but with different interpretations: Sara using a belligerent tone when none was warranted, Sara giving sparse details, Sara impatient that I would even ask what her plans were. I never saw the subtext.

My husband drove Katie to her party. Alone, I rushed to Sara's bedroom, a place I rarely went into anymore. I sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the furniture we'd happily picked out together and remembering how elated she'd been when we'd found a tie-dye border. Now this room was a dumping ground and a place to sleep.

Clothes were piled high on the floor, but I was afraid to touch anything, feeling like a suspicious wife, driven to look for tangible proof of defection but desperately hoping not to find any evidence. All around me, there were undeniable signs of a life I couldn't imagine my daughter living.

I picked up a T-shirt displaying a frightening image of the Cradle of Filth band and clutched it to my chest, inhaling deeply to get beyond the smell of stale cigarette smoke to the scent that belonged to the real Sara. The tacky kind of lingerie you'd expect to find in Frederick's of Hollywood was strewn over the floor. It was the room of a stranger that should have been in another house.

There was nothing new that happened that day. It was just until then, I wasn't ready to absorb the choices she was making, but no matter how long I tried to delude myself, the truth was ultimately inevitable. You're never ready, you never want to acknowledge the unimaginable, but in some way, once you do, it's a relief.

Jan Marin Tramontano, New York

Turning points catch us unaware and pivot us in a direction different than the one we originally planned, changing our relationships with our daughters in an instant. Seeing the scaled-down version of Ellen on stage the night of the Spring Concert transformed her into a stranger. Like Jan, I wondered where the child I loved had gone. In a matter of days, it seemed as if the Ellen I thought I knew had been kidnapped and a gaunt, irritable girl sent to live in her place. I began to guard my words and actions, fearful of upsetting her. Mealtimes, once our main family downtime, became tense and unbearable. Here are some other situations that changed the lives of both mothers and their daughters, for both better and worse.

Starting Over and Over
It was October 7, 1996, and I was ecstatic. Even though we'd just made a permanent move after my divorce and I had a full-time job outside the home for the first time in my life, my daughter, Melody, was being admitted to the Beta Club in middle school. Previously, teachers had told me she didn't read well and was "barely teachable," but my mom, a retired schoolteacher, and I had worked to help my daughter. Now she was getting an award, and I had the pictures to capture the moment forever.

Although my parents helped watch the kids while I worked many long hours, all I wanted was to go back to being a full-time mom and "be there" for both my kids. Before the divorce, I had enjoyed being a homemaker/mom, singing, and attending Bible studies. Through dating and chatting about this, I found a man to love me, the kids, and the cats. He spoke of the same "ideals" I had, but in the first year and a half of our marriage it turned out he had trouble fitting in and conforming to those beliefs.

Melody took advantage of his inner battles and my working too many hours. She ignored our house rule "nobody in/nobody out;" if no parents were home, no company was allowed unless planned and approved, and she was to call before going somewhere and tell details and ask time restraints and so on.

She ended up having to repeat tenth grade after her grades and attendance dropped. She also developed a solid smoking habit, confessed to trying many types of alcohol, a little "pot," and was picked up for shoplifting twice in one year. I got calls from sheriffs about that and late-night loitering. One day I got up to go to work and found my car missing -- she'd stolen and wrecked it.

We went through all the teen court classes and youth alternatives' classes and available counseling. Some of these counselors could have helped more or differently. The attendance counselor let it slip that 16-year-olds aren't actually required by law to attend school and that was all my daughter needed to fuel her apathy. After that, my groundings, positive reinforcements, scoldings, lectures, and tears had little effect.

Three months ago I caught her skipping school one morning. I knew she was up, getting ready, and thought she had left with a friend to walk to the bus stop. I took my shower and then found myself in Melody's room to put away some laundry.

She was there, squatting on her closet floor, hiding. I wanted to know why, but she kept silent. I was beside myself with anger and mixed emotions but had to go to my low-paying but steady-income job. Didn't she understand I had to work a menial job because I, too, had been overly boy crazy and only went through 58 hours of college? My goal was for her to have a better future than mine.

"Come on, Melody -- I'll drive you to school," I said. Still, she was silent. I did some preparations for my day until I heard her crying and sobbing, actually freaking out on the phone.

"Who are you talking to now?" I demanded.

"My father!" she cried.

"Why are you calling him long distance and crying and talking to him when you won't talk to me?" I shrieked.

She eventually relinquished the phone. I wanted her to talk, but that was not going to happen for another three hours.

Finally I announced my allegiance to her and her prominent place in my life and said: "Neither of us are going anywhere till you talk to me."

I called in "sick" for work. We ended up talking and crying -- it was a truly quality-filled day. She shared that she was five months pregnant and arranging for an abortion, but her ride had canceled and she'd wanted more money from her father to get a taxi.

We prayed together and agonized over every possibility. She was set on getting an abortion -- with or without me. I love her. I offered my support and dutifully drove her and held her hand. That was a weird day emotionally and mentally for both of us, but we ended up bonding.

While we still have to get beyond our emotional scars and rebuild our "trust level," she confides more in me now and says she's sure learned her lesson and doesn't want to repeat any more "stupidity" (her word). She comes home on time and we negotiate better. I take the time to iron out all details with her -- you see, I announced to my second husband that he no longer has any excuses for gallivanting and he must be the husband/stepdad we discussed on our dates because I quit my job outside the home and will do whatever necessary to put my kids first, at least for this summer. I may have to resort to a part-time job after school resumes, but Melody and her brother are more worthwhile and important to me than that nice retirement plan I'd accumulated.

Lori Stafford, Florida