The trip home was narrated to me by the host father via text messages sent at stopping points on a journey not unlike a death march. He is less tactful now, more openly irritated: She did not have a good day.

I feel guilty – I am the mother of the rude guest – but an increasing sense of relief as the plane’s scheduled landing time approaches. She is coming home; she got through it; she will be safe.

She is thrilled to see me at the baggage claim. She walks into the area with the host mother; the other two girls walk ahead and are being silly with each other.  I exchange pleasantries with the host parents, and thank them, and everything feels like all’s well that ends well.

The Child and I head home, finally, in the car, and I ask her, What went wrong?

She says first, I really missed you.

I missed you too, I tell her, but you’ve been away from me before and you were okay.

She says again, it’s not how I thought it would be. It’s not what I expected.

I struggle to understand, she struggles to explain.

Finally she says: I kept thinking that the other guest girl wanted to be the host girl’s only friend.

If you thought that, I say, then you are right – she did.

And then, in the car, in the dark, it all tumbles out: How for two days in the lake, if she wanted to swim, the other two girls were suddenly tired of swimming, and when she came out of the lake and got dried off, suddenly they wanted to swim again. She got cold, but it was important that windows stay open. She wanted to go outside, but everyone else wanted to read.

It felt like it was on purpose, she says, uncertainly.

It was, I told her.

Then it comes out, furiously, angrily: Once I sneezed because of spices, and the other girl started sneezing really loud a minute later. She had a terrible sneezing problem with spices, all of a sudden. Another time, The Child tripped and stubbed a toe and had to hop around, and the other girl tripped five minutes later and wrenched her ankle agonizingly.

Did any adults notice any of this? I ask.

Of course they did. Everyone paid attention when she had an accident or something.

It wasn’t what I meant, but the answer was clear enough: They didn’t see The Child leave the hotel room, or anything that followed for 10 days.

A few days into the trip, I notice the host father seems to have stopped posting pictures on Facebook. This is disappointing, since I am going out of town for a few days and won’t have access to Skype. I tell The Child she can call me if she needs to or wants to.

The father calls me one evening. He leaves the house and goes to sit in his car so we can speak privately. The Child is being difficult, he says, and he would like my advice in managing it. She’s arguing about things, and going off by herself, he says – but not in a safe way. She takes the paddle boat and goes off where she’s been told not to. She refuses to wear her life vest one day, or to go somewhere with the group another day. She argues and snaps and storms out of the room sometimes.

What I want to say is, send her home, but although everything seems to have been planned to the last detail, there is no escape plan.

Instead I say she’s exhausted and make suggestions: she doesn’t handle the unexpected well, I suggest, so it really helps to prepare her for what’s coming next. Tell her ahead of time, and then issue regular time warnings as you get ready to leave. The more tired she is, I tell him, the more she needs help with this.

It worked in third grade. It worked when I was still Mommy.

I receive many such calls over the next few days, and when I talk to her, I ask what’s going on. The conversations are not private, though. They are always on Skype, in the living room, where everyone else seems to be. She has a headset on, so they can’t hear me and I ask her questions. But all she says is: This isn’t how I thought it would be. This isn’t really fun.

She glances at people around her as they walk by, to let me know she cannot say what she wants to.

I get texts from her, sometimes happy sounding: we’re at a waterfall, it’s beautiful!  But when I talk to her later and ask how she’s doing, she only says, it’s okay, but I’m not really having fun.

I try to coach her to put a smile on her face: She’s there as a guest, all expenses paid – and clearly her presence and her misery is ruining everyone’s trip. Make the most of it, I tell her. Maybe it’s not what you expected, but try to enjoy it anyway. You’re doing fun things, right? Try to enjoy them.

She can’t seem to find either her sense of fun, or the words to tell me what is wrong.