Last night was pretty magical. The girls and I were invited to our dear friend Kathy’s house, to make Father’s Day gifts. As she explained to Annabelle and Sophie (and two other little girls who came along), for as long as she can remember, Kathy’s made her own father chocolate chip cookies every Father’s Day. She doesn’t have daughters, she told mine, so she wants to continue the tradition with them.

Kathy’s amazing. You might remember her as the baker of a gazillion cupcakes for Sophie’s birthday party. I met her a few years before I had kids, and I’ve been grateful ever since, not only for her friendship but for her talent in a massage method called myofascial release. (I know it sounds dirty, but it isn’t! If you have a bad back — or a bad anything, really — look into it.)

After dozens of hours on her table, we’ve emerged close friends — she’s a kindred spirit in so many ways, from a love of “Sex and the City” to a desire to hoard craft supplies — and lately we’ve bonded over something quite different: IQ numbers.

The other day I was feeling sorry for myself, thinking about how this battle over Sophie’s IQ and services has dragged on for more than a year, about how much I hate the fact the fact that I have to prove my kid’s dumb to keep her getting the therapies that are making her smart, or at least, allowing her intelligence to come out. Then I had to stop, when I considered Kathy’s situation.

Some background: The reason I met Kathy in the first place is because she and her family were the subject of a 1994 story in Phoenix New Times (my day job) by my colleague Paul Rubin. Kathy’s sister Cindy was murdered by her husband and his brother. They were sentenced to death more than 20 years ago. But they’re both still around. Not long ago, a change in the law gave them a chance at life — by allowing them to claim they are mentally retarded, and didn’t have the wits to know they were doing wrong when they killed my friend’s sister.

I don’t have the space or prowess to explain it all here, but my colleague Sarah Fenske’s recent blog post about the case includes good detail and links to the original pieces about the case. Kathy and I have never really discussed it, but I am no fan of the death penalty. Still, the idea that these men would claim to be retarded in order to escape the ultimate punishment makes me want to wring their necks myself. (Really, read what Sarah and Paul have written about the case. These guys plotted a murder and insurance scam, collected death row wives, the list goes on.)

The decision came down about a month ago. Michael Apelt, Cindy’s husband, is not retarded, said the judge (in what I am told is a groundbreaking decision with international implications). But his brother Rudy is. Now Kathy — who has spent a good chunk of the last 20-plus years in courtrooms, dealing with all this bullshit — has to face the idea that one day, Rudy might go free.

There is no chance for life without parole; that wasn’t an option at the time of conviction. I told you this was screwed up. Dare I say it — it’s really retarded.

I don’t think I need to explain why, in the midst of all of this, Kathy has been drawn to Sophie. Sophie (Annabelle, too) absolutely adores her — calls her KathyMonkman, all one word, always – and last night absolutely refused to leave Kathy’s house.

“I stay here!” Sophie said, her arm around Kathy’s neck. I was tempted to leave her. Kathy doesn’t talk about it much, but the sadness is always there. I know it is. I took Sophie home with me last night (hey, I’m selfish that way) but we planned our next outing, to the drive-in movies, for a picnic in our pajamas.

No more pity parties for me, I vowed silently, as we drove home. If Kathy can keep a good attitude in the midst of what she’s been through — and continues to go through — then damnit, so can I.