EXT. COLONIAL HOUSE, NEAR COLLEGE CAMPUS — AFTERNOON

Charming, 19th century New England colonial: sky blue, wrapped in a cozy blanket of ivy. The home of an aristocrat. Or an esteemed professor at an elite college, which it is.

In the backyard, a few dozen folks of various ages mingle. It’s a party for LINDSAY (18), who’s leaving for college.

She grabs a diet Snapple and shuffles inside, followed by her friends. A guy steals a lusty glimpse at one of the girls-

STEVE, Lindsay’s dad and aforementioned professor. Boyishly handsome, he’s 40 but still gets carded in good lighting.

He chuckles at a witty bon mot with the pompous dean, DEAN ANDREWS (60’s), who wears tweed even in the blazing sun.

In the shadows, EMILY (40), Lindsay’s mom. A timid secretary, she’s more than content in her supporting role. But there’s a lioness buried beneath her sweet demeanor, aching to surface.

Mournful, she drinks wine with BECKY (40), a portly and brash lawyer, the type unafraid to spew opinions on packed subways.

EMILY: … Still don’t get why she couldn’t just stay here.

BECKY: Gotta let it go, dude. Seriously.

EMILY: I mean, free tuition and board? That woulda been my dream.

BECKY: She’s 18, Em. She can buy Parliaments, vote for President, and fight in wars the prick starts.

EMILY: I know, it’s just… so far away.

BECKY: It’s not Fallujah. Talking a five hour drive. Four if I drive.

EMILY: … Know what the worst thing is?

BECKY: ‘Quality time’ with shitbag?

EMILY: Pretty sure she doesn’t want me there.

BECKY: Well, no, not at first. (off Emily’s look) She spent 18 years trying to bust outta here. Cut her some slack.

EMILY: Always thought the ivy looked like barbed wire…

BECKY: Give her space. She’ll come around.

Emily sips her glass of wine, hoping that’s true.