Should be back home for lunch. Want me to pick up sandwiches?
She typed back quickly.Yes please. Turkey for me.
Got it. See you in 20.
Lauren set the phone down and walked to the window. The backyard looked different in this light, the morning shadows giving way to the flat brightness of midday. She had chosen this house because of the yard, because she had imagined her children playing here, building forts and catching fireflies and growing up in a space that felt safe and contained.
She hadn’t imagined feeling stuck here. But that was what she felt sometimes. Stuck in the routines, stuck in the schedules, stuck in the endless cycle of meals and laundry and bedtimes that made up the architecture of motherhood.
It was a good life. She knew that. Jeff was a wonderful partner, her children were healthy and happy, and she had nothing to complain about. But every now and then, she caught herself wondering what had happened to the person she used to be. Thewoman who had backpacked through Europe after college, who had taken risks, who had believed that adventure was not just possible but necessary.
That woman felt very far away,, and quite possibly gone forever.
The front door opened, and Jeff appeared with a paper bag from the deli down the street. He smiled when he saw her.
“Hey. You look like you're thinking deep thoughts.”
“I'm always thinking deep thoughts. It's my natural state.”
“Uh huh.” He set the bag on the counter and crossed to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Want to tell me what's going on?”
Lauren leaned into him, letting herself be held. Jeff had always been good at this, at creating space for her to feel whatever she was feeling without judgment or pressure. It was one of the things she loved most about him.
“My grandmother called again this morning,” she said. “Left a voicemail. She wanted to know if I'd made a decision about the RV trip.”
“And have you?”
“I've made several decisions. Then I've unmade them. Then I've made different decisions.” She pulled back to look at his face. “I keep going back and forth. Part of me really wants to go. Part of me thinks it's crazy.”
“What does the part that wants to go say?”
Lauren considered this. “That I'll regret it if I don't. That this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, saying goodbye to that house, being there when my sister has her babies. That my grandmother is eighty and won't be around forever, and maybe I should grab every chance I get to spend time with her.”
“Those sound like good reasons.”
“They are good reasons. But then the other part of my brain kicks in. The part that says the kids need me, you need me, andthe recital is Saturday, and who's going to make sure Olivia gets to tennis practice on time.”
Jeff was quiet for a moment. Then he took her hands in his.
“Lauren. I need you to hear something, and I need you to actually believe it.”
“Okay.”
“I can handle this. The kids, the schedules, all of it. I'm not saying it will be easy, but I'm perfectly capable of being a parent on my own for a week.” He squeezed her hands. “You do it all the time when I travel for work. You never make me feel guilty about it. So why are you making yourself feel guilty about this?”
“Because it's different.”
“How is it different?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. How was it different? She was the mother, Jeff was the father, and in theory they were equal partners in this parenting enterprise. But somewhere along the way, she had absorbed the idea that her presence was more essential, that the household would collapse without her constant supervision, even though Jeff had been a stay-at-home parenting father before Daniel was born.
Her worry was unfounded. Jeff was a competent adult. He knew where the school was and what time practice started and how Daniel liked his sandwiches cut. He had been parenting these children just as long as she had.
“I don't know,” she admitted. “I think I've convinced myself that I'm indispensable.”
“You are indispensable. To me, to the kids, to everyone who loves you.” Jeff smiled. “But that doesn't mean you can't leave for a week. Indispensable people are allowed to take trips.”
“That should be on a bumper sticker.”
