The lobby of the Ritz smells like sandalwood, which makes me think of Will’s cologne and calms my nerves. I don’t know why I’m so nervous—Will said he’d be here. I sit on the navy velvet couch to wait for him to show up. Since I did end up having a credit for the Ritz in my gift-card stash, I figured it was as good an excuse as any for a date with Will.
The revolving door slowly turns and Will walks in. He’s gotten a haircut and is wearing an olive shirt that brings out his eyes. He grins when he sees me. “Hey,” he says, as I stand and walk toward him. He grabs my hips and pulls me close, his lips on mine. My breath catches and I close my eyes. “Hi,” I say softly when we pull apart.
“So what’s this mysterious meetup all about?” he says and I take his hand and lead him to the restaurant.
“I thought we could use a date,” I say. I give the maître d’ my name. He leads us to a table by the window and pulls out my chair.
Will leans forward. “Are we really going to waste time on dinner? Tell me you got us a room. Not to be a drag, but I’ve got to pick Addie up from gymnastics at eight.”
“Taken care of,” I say.
Will raises his eyebrows. “Gillian?”
I nod.
“Wow, OK then,” he says, and then leans back in his chair as the waiter approaches. Will orders a beer and I get a Negroni and exhale, realizing how stressed I’ve been all day. Will asks about my day and we chitchat idly until our drinks arrive. I take a sip, then shift the conversation to the topic of us. “I like being with you,” I say. Will meets my eyes. “I know we didn’t really set any boundaries, or define our relationship, but it sort of feels like, maybe we should…”
“You want to bring another guy home?” he says, and I let out a nervous laugh, more at his use of the word “home” than at his joke. Commit, Kit.
“I’m trying to be serious. I think it’s pretty clear I don’t want to date anyone else. I really like you. But this has all been so sudden. We went from like, one sorta date, to working together, to living together and I know it’s temporary, but I also think that we’re blurring the lines with it all. The whole Addie thing. I heard you guys last night in Addie’s room and you were weird with me last night. You know I don’t hate kids. God, I spent a ton of time and energy trying to figure out how to get that message across to people as it is. I especially don’t hate Addie, that’s for sure. You know that, and I know that if Addie hears this from someone, it has to be me, but also, all of this…is a lot. It feels a bit like I’m being thrown into parenting her.”
Will raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t—I’m not implying I’ve been doing anything near what you do, but it feels like I am a lot more involved than I would be if we were just casually dating, and that would be fine except we’re pretending, for her, that we’re not dating, so it feels a bit unfair and confusing. Like, which is it? And I don’t need us to define any of this, but I just wanted you to know why I’m a bit hesitant to have to justify my career to Addie.” I’m babbling and none of this sounds as coherent as when I’d tried to rehearse what I wanted to say. I look at Will. Maybe I need to make this more of a conversation, hear what he has to say.
He stares back at me.
“Well? What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think that none of this has anything to do with you and me and everything to do with the fact that a little girl heard that someone who hates children is living in her house. It wouldn’t matter who it was, if anyone—a friend, a brother, a neighbor, anyone was staying with me and this happened—I would ask them to explain themselves and make things right with my daughter.” He folds his arms over his chest.
His words hit me—hard. He’s right. “And what’s more, if you heard us discussing all this, why didn’t you come in? You had the perfect opportunity to fix things, in the moment.”
Tears well in my eyes. Because I was a coward.
Will’s phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. Gillian. Of course. Now I fold my arms over my chest.
Will pauses, looking from his phone to me. “Listen, I know I’ve surrounded myself with overprotective women, and they haven’t been the most welcoming to you.” His phone buzzes again. “But it comes from a good place. They’ve been in Addie’s life since she was a baby. They just want the best for her.” He pushes back his chair and stands, holding up his phone. “I really should take this.”
He walks quickly toward the door of the restaurant and I pull my eyes away to refocus on my drink, downing half of it. This is not going according to plan—whatever plan that was. That’s the thing, I had things I wanted to say, but no real plan. What did I expect Will to say?
Out of the corner of my eye, Will comes into view. “I forgot that Addie was doing her level evaluation at gymnastics today. I really should be there.”
Disappointment washes over me. Of course he should be there, but why did it have to be right now? He puts his credit card on the table, and waves to the waiter. “I’m really disappointed not to use the room,” he says, his eyes shining.
I nod. “It was comped anyway,” I say, my voice cracking.
“And it’s not the same, but want to come with me? We could talk more in the car?”
This is Will giving me a chance. It’s not the romantic evening I had planned, and yet, I’d rather be with him than without him. “Sure,” I say, standing.
“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says once we’re driving. “It was really nice that you set this up, and I know that I’m not blameless either. I’ve definitely sent you mixed messages, but this is confusing for me too. My brain is telling me one thing, but the rest of me is trying really hard to ignore it.”
“You’re right about Addie, though,” I say. “And me taking responsibility. I’ll talk to her.”
“Maybe tomorrow? I have an early breakfast to cater, so I was actually going to ask you if you minded getting her to school? I know, I’m kind of asking a lot of you, but I guess…I like having you be the one I can turn to. It can be pretty lonely single parenting, and even though Addie was upset last night, I know she really likes you. That’s why she was so upset. Because you matter. To her. And to me.”
“You’re just saying that so I’ll do it,” I tease.
Will pulls into a large lot beside an industrial-looking building and parks. He shuts the car off and turns to me, putting his hand on my chin and pulling my face close. I close my eyes as his lips meet mine, and lose myself in the moment.
The next morning I’m up before my alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m. I still haven’t figured out what to say to Addie, but I’m determined to give this morning my best shot.
When I was growing up, one of my favorite memories was waking up to the smell of muffins baking in the oven. Coming downstairs to a warm kitchen and seeing my mother in an apron, oven mitts on, humming to the music in her head made me feel cozy and happy. She would smile as soon as she saw me, give me a hug, and within minutes, have a muffin on a plate in front of me, a pat of butter on the side. She’d ask what one thing I was looking forward to that day. It was our special time together, and after she was gone, I’d envision those mornings, pretending she was giving me advice on university term papers, boyfriends, job drama. The perfect morning to start the day.
Downstairs, I pour myself a cup of coffee, rub my eyes and tell myself I’m not tired. If I’m going to do this, I’ve got to be awake to do this. On my phone I find a recipe for banana muffins and then pull the ingredients out of the cupboard. Of course I find everything I need, since I’m in a chef’s kitchen. The thing about living alone is that I would never have all the ingredients for muffins—or any recipe—in my cupboards and fridge. Maybe it’s not only because Will’s a chef. I wonder if it’s because being a dad, taking care of someone else, forces him to make his house a home. It almost makes me not want to ever go back to my own apartment, even if I’d be getting to sleep in past sunrise.
Once the muffins are in the oven, I fill the sink with soapy water and just as I begin washing the mixing bowls, the stairs start to creak. Addie shuffles into the kitchen.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
“What’s that smell?” She yawns and stretches her arms over her head.
“Banana muffins.” I smile. “With chocolate chips.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
I’m not sure if we’re just spouting random facts, but I nod. “Yep! Anything exciting going on at school today?”
“We always have pancakes on Tuesday,” she grumbles. “That’s why it’s called Pancake Tuesday.”
“Isn’t that during Lent?”
“I don’t know. We’re not Jewish.”
I bite my tongue.
“Where’s Dad? I want him to make the pancakes.”
“He had to leave early. To cater a breakfast.” I know for a fact she knows this, because Will told her on the car ride home from gymnastics last night. The same silent car ride where she didn’t speak to me.
Addie sighs dramatically. “So what, you’re, like, my babysitter now, too?”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I’m not your babysitter. And I’m sorry I didn’t know about Pancake Tuesday but…” The timer goes off and I open drawers, looking for oven mitts. Slipping them on, I take the muffins out of the oven and put them on the top of the stove.
“But what?”
I don’t know what else to say.
“Well, are you going to make pancakes, or what?”
“Or what,” I say, which is something Dad used to say to me. And I always hated when he did, but now I’m doing it too. “I’m not going to make pancakes because I already made muffins and I don’t even like to bake. So I guess if you want pancakes you’ll have to make them yourself. I’m going to go upstairs to get ready for work.” I throw down the oven mitts and turn toward the stairs.
“Yeah, well I can’t make pancakes because I’m not allowed to use the stove without an adult!” she screams after me.
I’m just about to bring up the whole Instagram issue as we’re walking south on Euclid to Addie’s school when she stops dead in her sneakers. “I forgot the tissue!” she says, turning to me wide-eyed. Her hair is matted and her buttons aren’t lined up on her shirtdress. I wonder if I should’ve offered to help her get ready, but this is the first thing she’s said to me since blowing up at me about pancakes.
“What tissue?”
“For the pillows,” she says turning around. “We have to go back.”
“What pillows?” I say, but she’s already running back down the sidewalk toward the house. I chase after her, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. “What pillows?” I catch her before the street and grab her hand. I expect her to try to pull it away, and for me to have to hold it tighter to make sure she doesn’t cross the street without me, but she doesn’t tug. Small miracles.
Inside the house, she races around the living room, and then into the kitchen. “Where is it?” She reminds me of a wind-up toy. “The bag of used tissue I’ve been saving up for weeks.”
“You’ve been saving used tissue for weeks? Why on earth would you save used tissue for weeks?” I’m still standing in the doorway, staring at my phone. I’m going to miss my appointment.
“For the pillows we’re making! That’s what I’ve been telling you! I’ve been saving the tissue every time I blow my nose—it’s taken me weeks because it’s not even winter and I don’t have a cold!”
The thought that Addie’s been blowing her nose and then saving the tissue in a bag is really just too much. I don’t know whether to be amused or disgusted. A laugh escapes me.
“Don’t laugh!” she says but I can’t stop. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And then I realize. When I was cleaning up yesterday, I threw a bunch of plastic bags in the garbage. I race out the back doors toward the bins, but it must be garbage day because they’re not in the shed. I hurry around the side of the house to the front. A quick glance toward the road tells me Will must have dragged them to the curb before he left this morning. But the bin lids are all flipped open. They’re empty inside. It’s like the wind’s been knocked out of me. I turn back to Addie, who’s standing in the doorway.
“They’re gone,” I say. “I threw them out.” I walk toward her.
“You what?!”
“I didn’t realize they weren’t garbage. I just assumed.”
She turns and goes back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Thankfully, she doesn’t lock it and I find her on the couch, her face in her hands. “We can get new tissue,” I say, wondering where Will keeps the extra tissue boxes. I open the pantry, scan the shelves, and relieved, I grab two boxes of tissue and turn back to Addie. “Ta da!” I look around for her backpack but she’s shaking her head, and throws up her arms. “They can’t be new tissues! Ughhh, this is the worst. The whole point of the project was to reuse something. We all had to save something that would’ve been thrown out and filled our landfills. We were going to fill pillows we’re making in art class with whatever we saved up. My tissue idea was the best idea—everyone was going to be jealous. My pillow was going to be super fluffy.” Her eyes are filling with tears. “Now I have nothing to fill my pillow with, and we’re filling our pillows today.”
I think of all the times I had to muddle through school projects myself. I used to imagine everyone else sitting at the table with their moms, brainstorming, laughing, putting things together. It made me hate school projects. And now not only does Addie not have a mom to work with, she has this other, random, incompetent woman staying in her house, ruining everything.
I have to fix this. Stat.
“I could give you an old sweatshirt I don’t wear?” I try. “That’s something that would go into a landfill, right?”
“It can’t be clothes. It was one of the rules.”
I look at the clock over the TV. Keep thinking!
“I’ve got it! Come with me,” I say, tossing the tissue boxes on the couch and hurrying toward the door. She follows me and I usher her out onto the sidewalk, and in the opposite direction from school.
“Where are we going?” she says. She sounds excited and hopeful, which is all I need.
“To my place.” I flag down a cab. He pulls over and we hop in. I give him my address.
“But isn’t your place flooded?”
“You’ll see.”
While some of the apartment units have upgrades of laundry in-suite, like mine, some of them don’t. So there’s a laundromat in the basement. And that’s exactly where we’re going.
Out of the cab, we race into the building and it hits me. This feeling of peace. I miss my apartment. I miss my own space. I miss waking up, having coffee and starting my day in peace—instead of waking up tired, rushing to get Addie to school and now scrambling to find lint for an art project. This life—it’s…hard.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Fionn, the Kind Concierge, says, breaking me out of my thought spiral, and I refocus on Addie. There’s no time to wallow in my own pity. Addie is eight and this project is important to her—and the only reason we’re racing around trying to solve this issue is because I threw out the tissue in the first place. And so we dash past his desk, through the mail room to a door that leads to a stairwell. I hold the door open for her and she peers down the stairs, then back at me skeptically. “It’s fine,” I assure her, and we rumble down the stairs. I’ve actually never been inside the laundromat. I only know it exists because I’ve seen other tenants carry their laundry in baskets up and down in the elevator. I’m worried—will there be only a handful of dryers? But as we round the corner into a large room, I see we’re in luck. The room is massive, with at least twenty machines on either wall, and the dryers are stacked two-high. “Jackpot!” I declare and then race over to the first dryer and pull open the door. Peering inside, I find the latch and pull out the lint screen, surprising myself with my shot of domestic prowess. As I expected, it’s packed with lint. I only then realize that I don’t have a bag. But Addie immediately grasps what’s going on and shrugs off her backpack and unzips it. “In here!” she says, pulling out her lunch bag to make space. With one swift move I sweep the lint into her bag, replace the screen, close the dryer door and move on to the next. And the next and the next and the next. Addie squeals and touches the lint. “It’s so soft! And smells so good. And it would’ve just gone in the garbage! Kit!” She throws her arms around me. “You saved the day!”
I breathe a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, Addie’s bag is filled with lint and we’re rushing back upstairs as my phone rings. Will’s voice is higher than usual and he’s speaking in double-time. “The school just called. Did you drop Addie off?”
“Not yet. She’s with me. Don’t worry. We were figuring something out.” I hold the door for her at the top of the stairs with one hand, and cradle the phone between my shoulder and my ear.
“Figuring what out? But you’re taking her, right?”
“We’re on our way,” I say, smiling, as I wave to Fionn and we rush out the glass doors onto the street. I look both ways but there are no cabs in sight. I grab Addie’s hand and lead her down the sidewalk. Adrenaline whizzes through me. “I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you later.” I shove my phone in my pocket and flag down a cab. We clamber in and I tell him where to go. Then I lean back against the seat and look over at Addie. She’s grinning at me. “This is way more fun than gym class.” She pats her backpack and when we roll up in front of her school, we get out and I ask her if I need to go in with her, but she shakes her head. “I can sign in myself.” I wait for her to turn, to head up the stairs to the school, but she just stands there.
“I’m sorry about the pancakes,” she says. “Your muffins were actually really good. I ate two.”
“Well you’re probably going to be sick of them because I put two more in your lunch.” We both laugh. She starts to walk away and then turns back.
“Hey, Kit?”
My hand is on the cab door. “Yeah?”
“We have a bake sale at Pizza Day tomorrow—would you help me make more muffins after school today? We’re trying to raise money to buy a goat for a family in Tanzania.”
“Definitely,” I say without thinking, then remember I have a completely packed day of events and meetings—but I don’t want to disappoint her by saying I don’t have time. I’ll figure it out later. She rushes back and hugs me and then I watch as she hurries up the steps and into the school.
I somehow make it to the women’s shelter at the end of Will’s street only twenty minutes late for my appointment. It’s not the best first impression, but the director, a woman named Rhoda, with graying blond hair and laugh lines around her eyes, is kind and welcomes me. She leads me down a narrow hallway and through a set of locked doors. She says we’ll head to her office so we can have a chat, and as we walk down the hallway we pass a common room. There are tables with chairs, games on shelves, an area that looks like it’s set up for doing crafts, but all the women in the room are sitting on a worn sofa, facing the large TV on the wall at the far end of the room.
We keep walking.
“So you were interested in volunteering?” Rhoda says, leading me into a small, windowless room. She motions for me to sit and she goes around to the other side of the desk and faces me.
“Well,” I clear my throat. “I was thinking of volunteering my social media, really,” I say, realizing that this doesn’t sound as generous as I thought it would. But I just need to explain my thinking. That I’ve been wondering how I can make a real difference, to use my followers for something good. Not that the fight for women to be child-free by choice isn’t good, I just wanted to do more. Something Thom-like. And the distraught-looking women I see every time I walk to and from Will’s haunt me. There has to be something I can do for these women, too.
“Your social media?” She brushes a strand of hair off her face.
“I could post about the shelter and maybe that would prompt people to donate money or time or something. Just bring more awareness. I can get eyes on your message. Use my feed for good instead of selfies, you know?” I smile.
Her brow furrows, and she clears her throat. “I suppose that could help. But what we need are inspiring women to spend some time around here. I was hoping you were offering to speak to these women about empowerment and self-care. I’ve watched clips of your talks. You’re very supportive of women. Women’s choices, women’s rights. Of course, many of these women have children and have gone through some terrible ordeals. Some of them have had to leave their children behind to come here and get help. Some are counting down the days until they can see them again.” And I feel something pinch inside of me. The idea of these women, desperate and forlorn, who are without their kids, but definitely not by choice, makes my heart ache.
“So the whole child-free debate,” Rhoda is saying. “That wouldn’t be appropriate here. But I still think you could really empower women and help them to feel good about themselves. And these women could use a bit of that. Because they are strong. So strong. The lives they’ve lived, the decisions they’ve had to make, would break almost anyone. But not them. They need to see this in themselves though. They deserve some positivity, to feel good about who they are and the steps they’ve taken to make some serious changes in their lives.” Rhoda leans forward, looking into my eyes. “Steps you couldn’t even imagine.”
I get it. And it moves something inside of me. I understand her point—not to talk about the child-free life, but of course that’s the one part of my life I’m proud of. It’s certainly not the rentable furniture, the mattress in a box, the food kits they can’t even afford. Who am I, who have I become?
Hands gripping the chair arms, I push myself to standing. “I think, maybe, this was a mistake.”
But Rhoda studies me. Then she says, quietly, but firmly, “Why don’t you meet some of them? Sometimes it’s best to see for yourself. We’ll have to check that the women are OK with it, of course, and it can only be for a few minutes, but sometimes, it can help. Put a face to what I’m talking about.”
I don’t argue, but instead follow her down the hall to the room we passed earlier. She tells me to wait at the door, while she speaks to a few women. One follows her back over, sitting at a table, looking at me. “Come on, I’ll introduce you. Doreen, this is Kit.”
Doreen looks me up and down. “You a social worker?” I shake my head.
“No, Kit’s interested in volunteering here.”
She nods. “You gonna teach us to needlepoint? How ’bout a Fuck Men coaster?”
I laugh nervously.
“We could sell ’em on my Etsy page.”
“You’re on Etsy?”
“I’m homeless, not an idiot.”
She studies my face, pale, I’m sure, and bursts out laughing. “Homeless people—they’re just like us.” She spreads her hands wide, as though displaying a headline.
“I’ll leave you two,” Rhoda says, laughing and shaking her head.
“So whaddaya wanna know?” She folds her hands in front of her, leaning forward onto the table.
I shrug. “I guess, I just wanted to meet you. Find out what you…do here? This is a place to help get back on your feet, get back out there, right?” My voice is an octave higher, filled with positivity. But Doreen’s not buying it.
“Ahh, like get a job, all that. Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She doesn’t sound very convincing. This woman needs a motivational speech. I clear my throat.
“You know”—I start, but she’s staring off into space, her face toward the window.
“Is it warm out there?” she asks. “It looks warm.”
I follow her gaze, wondering how often she even goes outside. Surely they can go outside whenever they want? “Oh, um, it’s nice. You don’t need a jacket today.”
“My husband hated talking about the weather. Drove him mad. I couldn’t even wonder if it was raining without him flying off the handle.” She turns back to me. “You married?” I shake my head. “You’re lucky. Biggest mistake I ever made. You know he locked me in a closet for two days?”
My hands move to my mouth, as though stopping me, making sure I think before I say anything. But what can I say to this? Suddenly all my thoughts seem frivolous, meaningless. That a few minutes ago I was worried what this woman might think about me—and my career choices. Doreen isn’t thinking about me. She’s thinking about how she’s living here, instead of with a man who locked her in a closet. I lean forward in my chair. “Are you…OK?” I ask softly.
“I’m alive, aren’t I?”
This is the measure of her life—alive or dead?
“That wasn’t the worst thing he did,” she continues. “At least I was inside that time. Another time he locked me in the shed out back—middle of winter.”
I try to imagine this scenario, what could’ve happened to enrage her husband to the point that he thought locking her in a shed was the solution, but the images don’t come. It feels unreal—like a horror movie. I can’t find any words to comfort Doreen, and I feel ashamed of myself. This isn’t anything close to what I imagined I’d be doing when I walked into this shelter. How could I have been so naïve as to not consider the awful stories that brought these women here?
“Everyone always asks me why I didn’t just leave. Like it was so easy. Of course I wanted to leave. So many times. But my daughter…I couldn’t leave without her, and I couldn’t figure out a way to leave with her, either. Not without him killing me. I kept thinking, if he kills me, what’ll happen to her? He’d never done anything to her, but I knew I had to stay alive to protect her, which meant staying with him.” She lets out a belly laugh. “And of course he kept telling me it would never happen again. And like a fool, I believed him.”
I think about how lucky I am, to have the life I have. To have never come close to being in the position Doreen was put in. “I’m sure he was convincing,” I say. “You wanted to believe the best. You had to believe the best.”
“What do they say? A zebra doesn’t change its stripes? He was one hell of an asshole-zebra.”
I’m quiet, letting her speak. But she’s quiet, too. Finally, I ask: “So how did you…how did you eventually leave?”
When she doesn’t respond I wonder if I shouldn’t have asked. But then she nods, and begins to speak. She tells me the story—how she and her daughter eventually got away from him, leaving with nothing—no money, no extra clothes. Just the two of them, together. That it was the only way.
My life feels so easy. And yet, I’m always finding things to complain about. I have nothing stopping me from doing whatever I want with my life.
“So you gonna tell me how to get my life back on track? That’s what you’re here to do?”
I shake my head. “No. It sounds like your life is on track, for now, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll get there. And he’s locked up, so when I do get out, he won’t be around. But for now, this is OK. Some of the women are crazy, but there are a few good ones here. I’ve made some friends.” I must make a face because she laughs. “Sometimes you have to paddle through shit river to find your island. It’s not Tahiti, but it’s pretty good, for now.” I think about the women in the No Kidding group, how lucky I felt when I found them, these women who felt like me, who didn’t make me feel like the ugly duckling, and yet, how our connection seems so vapid compared to what Doreen and the women here are all dealing with. The biggest issue the No Kidding women face is having to spend an afternoon here or there hanging out with women who have kids and having to talk about motherhood? How ridiculous.
If it weren’t for being child-free, would Xiu, Gloria, Casey even be my friends? I haven’t told any of them about what’s going on with Will, because I’m afraid of how they’ll react. Will they shun me from the group I founded because I’ve broken the group’s one rule?
Doreen stands, breaking me out of my thoughts. “I’ve got to go get my girl from school. I guess I’ll see you around here?”
I nod. “It was…thanks…”
She sticks out her hand. “Nice meeting you…?”
“Kit.”
“Kit-Kat. See ya later.” She saunters out of the room. I follow her, looking for Rhoda, and find her near the entrance, speaking to another woman. As she walks me out, I turn to her. “I…I’m not sure what I could really do to help out here,” I say. “But I would like to do something, I think.” Rhoda presses a code to unlock the door. “Why don’t you give it some thought? You know where to find us.”
Doreen is on my mind the rest of the day, and when it’s time to go to the No Kidding group, I pause before ordering the Uber. I want to share Doreen’s story with the women, to suggest we think of a way to support the shelter, but I worry that even bringing up the topic will raise so many emotions and questions, and I won’t be able to stop myself from telling them what’s really going on. That my wanting to help those women is partly selfless but mostly selfish, because I’m not finding my own career fulfilling anymore. I worry that talking about it will bring up too much, like the real root of the problem: Will. Addie. All of it.
I think about this as I start walking, and slowly, the realization comes to me: that having children isn’t a full-time job; it’s more than a full-time job. And sure, you can do other things, too—you can have a career and have kids—but not in the same way. Because it isn’t just about the time it takes to physically care for a child, to walk her to school or make her lunch or help her with homework. It’s all the mental energy it takes, the interest, the worry, the love, the headspace it takes up to think about someone other than yourself, and not in a way that happens when you’re dating someone who is self-sufficient. It’s different with Addie. It’s thinking for her, about what could affect her. I always knew that motherhood would mean less time left to spend on myself, my career. And now, that’s exactly what’s happening. If I had never met Will or Addie, I wouldn’t be thinking about them right now. And yet, I want to know how Addie’s pillow turned out today. I agonize that Gillian’s dislike for me is going to affect Addie’s friendship with Millie. I worry that I won’t have time to get my work done tomorrow and show up for Addie’s bake sale. Not to mention finding time tonight to bake muffins for the sale. And yet, I don’t want to stop thinking about these things.
When it comes down to it, though, I’d rather be with Will and Addie than focusing on how great my life is without them. So instead of going to the meeting, I walk toward Will’s. It’s just before six when I turn onto his street, and I’m looking forward to sitting down to dinner with them. When I open the door, though, I see Gillian in the kitchen with Will. They’re laughing, there’s music playing, Will’s cooking and Gillian’s drinking wine. I can see through the back glass that Addie and Millie are in the backyard. I stare at the scene in the kitchen as though I’m looking through a two-way mirror. Then I turn and head back down the stairs before anyone can notice me. I feel like a fool.
I end up at Izzy’s half an hour later. “Can I stay here?” I say, and when she opens the door wider, I burst into tears.