Before I can answer, Janet, who lives across the street and always smells vaguely like eucalyptus and Cheerios, appears with her toddler on one hip. She shifts the child and gives me a soft, tilted-head smile that somehow manages to feel both sympathetic and performative. Her short, brown bob accentuates themovement. “We’ve all been wondering, how are you doing? Truly? It’s such a tragic thing. We loved Owen. He always cut my grass when John was out of town for work.”
I force a small smile, the one I’ve been practicing in the mirror. Not too bright, not too bleak. Somewhere between “I'm fine” and “please stop talking.”
“Taking it day by day,” I offer, my voice as even as I can manage.
Mildred nods like she’s tasted something bittersweet and intends to chew on it all night. “Of course. Of course. And have you given any thought to selling the house?” She leans in slightly. “It must feel so big now. All alone like that.”
The words hang in the air like a cold breeze. I open my mouth, either to laugh or scream, I haven’t quite decided, but before I can do either, I catch a flash of copper hair and dread coils in my stomach.
Missy.
She’s weaving her way through folding chairs and collapsible coolers like a heat-seeking missile. Her auburn braid swings behind her like a smug little metronome, keeping time with her unsolicited opinions.
“Birdie!” Her voice drips faux-surprise. “Is this the first time at a neighborhood event since, um, Owen’s unfortunate passing? I totally understand why you’ve needed time, but it’s so good to see you around the block. Running into you at the occasional PTA meeting isn’t cutting it.” She places a hand on her heart, eyes misting in a way that screams rehearsed. “And this is the perfect opportunity to talk about prom this year. I know Harper graduated two years ago, but you are still such a vibrant presence.”
I barely get a chance to mumble something noncommittal before Karen swoops in from the snack table like a vulture wearing Tory Burch.
“Birdie!” She wraps me in a warm embrace, and I feel the tension I’m holding in my spine relax a little. “Don’t pay them any mind. I’m so happy you’re here!” Her eyes flicktoward Noah, who’s still planted loyally at my side like some kind of human shield. “And how lovely that you brought a friend. I want to hear all about how you’re doing and if you need anyth—Oh, will you excuse me a moment? It looks like Ted needs me.” I follow Karen’s line of sight across the yard where her husband is standing holding their two newborn twins while their toddler throws marshmallows at Missy’s cat.
Before I can beg her to stay and then feel guilty for needing her, she’s off across the yard yelling, “Come find me! I have a huge piece of chocolate cake with your name on it!”
Karen’s warmth bolsters my confidence, and I stride toward the tables, setting down my nachos just as Sharon sets down her infamous Bundt cake. She’s wearing a floral apron and pumps that are so high they have no business being worn to a block party.
“Noah!”
Sharon’s voice rises like a flute over the hum of the party, all sugary notes and sharp edges. She practically glides toward him, wielding a paper plate with a piece of Bundt cake.
I don’t miss the fact she doesn’t address me.
“I have to get your opinion,” she trills, thrusting the floral plate into his hands. “Tried a brand-new recipe. It’s lemon poppy seed, with a hint of almond and the faintest whisper of lavender. All organic, of course. I milled the flour myself.”
I blink. Of course she did.
Noah, ever the gentleman, raised on politeness and probably traumatized by church potlucks, takes a forkful like it’s his civic duty. He chews, then gives a polite nod, the kind you reserve for when someone’s newborn baby isn’t cute but you’ve committed to the lie.
“Wow.” He pauses to swallow. “That’s amazing.”
Sharon beams like she’s won a ribbon, basking in his approval. Then, with practiced sweetness, she swivels toward me. Her smile stays in place, but her eyes gleam with the kind of challenge you only see in a small-town bake-off or a Real Housewives reunion.
“Birdie,” her voice is all faux warmth and condescensionfrosted in charm, “you have to try it too. You know, just to practice.” Her voice lilts like she’s doing me a favor. “That poor chocolate cake is forever in my memory. Oh, what was it…” She taps a manicured finger to her chin. “A little dry? But bless your heart for trying.”
I stand frozen for a beat. My eyes drop to the platter of nachos still cradled in my arms, my humble rebellion. My attempt at saying I’m showing up as I am. But the truth is, I’m not quite there yet. Not really. I still care what these women think. Maybe not as much as before, but enough that her words still land.
Noah leans in, his voice low, only for me. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
I glance back at Sharon, who’s holding out a plastic fork like a baton in a pageant. Her smile is tight and toothy, eyes glittering with expectation. Around us, the neighborhood women hover like cats waiting for a can to open, watching, measuring what I’ll do.
And then, like muscle memory, I reach out and take the fork. Because that’s what I’ve always done: smile, be agreeable, keep the peace. Don’t make waves, Birdie. Keep your voice sweet and your posture poised.
I scoop a bite from Noah’s plate and chew slowly. For a second, I try to do it the old way. Try to find something neutral to say, something safe. But the weight of it, the fake smiles, the pretending, the ever-present urge to earn a gold star for existing, it all feels so heavy.
Too heavy.
I square my shoulders.
“Actually—” My tone is calm but firm. “This cake tastes a little like despair.”
The air around us tightens.
