Viv strolls in first, glowing like a woman who got eight hours of sleep and has zero regrets. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and holding a green smoothie that smells like liquified lawn clippings.
“Great night!” she sings, plopping herself onto the counter. “We laughed, we danced, Marin almost eloped with a retired orthodontist named Len.”
I groan, shielding my eyes. “How are you this vertical? Did the sangria metabolize into vitamins in your body?”
Viv grins. “Chaos is my cardio.”
Marin shuffles in last, gripping her phone like it’s reporting on a national emergency. Her robe is tied in a perfect knot, hair still pinned in a tidy bun, but her eyes are wide with panic.
“I think I’m viral,” she croaks.
Viv perks up. “You’re welcome.”
I freeze mid-sip. “You think you’re viral?”
Marin thrusts her phone toward me. “Look! It’s us at the winery! It’s everywhere!”
Viv spins her phone around with a smug little flourish. “That’s not you, babe. That’s Birdie.” She hits play.
There I am, front and center, conga-line-adjacent and fully committed to a dance that looks like I’m trying to swat bees with my elbows. At one point, I do a high kick. I cannot do high kicks. My brain has a foggy memory of Viv showing me this video last night.
Marin leans closer, squints at the screen, then gasps. “Wait? That’s you? But I made an epic toast!”
Viv’s eyes light up. “Oh, we posted that too. It's in a compilation video called ‘Grief Girls Gone Wild.’ But Birdie doing the conga line and then the Floss with a sangria? That’s the money shot.”
“So I’m the face of middle-aged emotional unraveling?” I mope.
Viv grins. “The star of it.”
I wince. “No. No, no, no.”
Viv starts reading the comments aloud with great enthusiasm:
“This is the kind of soft grief content I needed today.”
“Grieving and thriving. We love to see it.”
“Wine Mom Nation, rise.”
“Someone sponsor her!”
“Eighty-seven thousand likes,” Marin croaks. “And climbing.”
I squint at the screen. “Wait, why am I the one who went viral? I’m pretty sure Viv recorded you in the yard when you took Frank outside to potty. You told Frank you wanted to do a trust fall in the vineyard.”
I’ve gone from the perfectly composed housewife, the kind ofwidow people can stomach, with her grief neatly folded between PTA meetings and silent auction donations, to a woman who dances in a goat wine bar and blurts out things like “grief isn’t linear” without even flinching. Either I’m healing, or I’m unraveling. Maybe both.
Marin groans and drops onto a stool, burying her face in her hands. “I was emotional. You try drinking half a sangria and talking about loss in public.”
Viv flips her phone around and points to another comment. “This one says we should start a podcast.”
“Nope.” Viv barely finishes reading the comment before I protest.
She ignores me. “Healing Through Chaos. First episode: ‘Dancing Away the Patriarchy.’”
“If you say ‘healing energy’ one more time,” I mutter, pouring more coffee, “I’m putting sage in your underpants drawer.”
Viv beams, toasting me with her smoothie. “And my underpants would thank you.”
