I groan and bury my face in my hands. “It’s dumb. I’m too old. It’s probably meant for fresh-out-of-college twenty-somethings with graphic design certificates and ring lights. I have Owen’s life insurance money. It’s not like I need a job.”
“You have an art history degree.” Marin leans against the counter. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to work there once?”
“I did.” I exhale, the kind of breath that comes from deep, dusty storage. “Back in college, I used to walk past the museum and pretend I worked there. I thought I’d wear long skirts and talk to people about Van Gogh’s brushstrokes. Maybe write some poetic little blurbs for the wall labels. It felt possible back then.”
“So why didn’t you?” Viv asks the question as if the answer is simple.
It’s not.
“I met Owen. Then I got pregnant. One baby turned into two, and suddenly I blinked and twenty-something years vanished into field trips, soccer games, PTA meetings, bake sales, and playdates. I was updating my résumé, telling myself that once Harper hit fifteen, I’d finally go back—start building a career, step back from being that mom who was always at the school.”
“But…” Marin prompts gently.
“But then Owen died.” I nod, the ache still sharp even after all this time. “And suddenly, getting a job wasn’t even on the table. I had life insurance, so the money wasn’t the first priority. My grieving teenage daughter, son who just left for college and was struggling to keep it together, and a house full of grief was all I had the mental capacity for. I needed to keep everything from falling apart. I needed to hold her up. Hold me up.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick and unrelenting. “And now? Now it’s just me. And this stupid email. And this evenstupider idea that maybe I could still do something for myself. But what if I apply and they laugh? Or worse—what if I actually get it, and I’m the awkward, out-of-touch intern who doesn’t even know what’s in style anymore?”
Marin smirks. “Then at least you’ll be the brave, awkward old intern. Honestly, Birdie, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“I’ll look like an idiot.”
“You fearlessly danced in a conga line and in a competition at a goat wine bar. You don’t fear looking foolish anymore! You don’t care what other people think!”
“You say that, but I feel like I’d need a translator to understand the office coffee machine. They don’t want someone like me. I’m someone’s mom. I was someone’s wife.”
“No.” Viv turns, rummaging through the junk drawer. “You’re someone. Period.”
“What are you doing?” I eye her suspiciously as she moves to the living room.
She rifles through a stack of books on the coffee table and returns with the pink glitter notebook raised in her triumphant hand.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Yup.” She’s already flipping to a fresh page.
“Viv, I swear?—”
Too late. Her pen is already in motion, her dramatic lopsided cursive etching its decree into my paper sanctuary.
#11. Apply to Seattle Art Museum Internship. I double-dog-dare you.
I lunge for it. “You can’t add things! There’s an obvious theme to my dares, romance, love, human connection, remember?”
Viv lifts the notebook over her head like I’m a toddler trying to reach for cookies. “This is a human connection. It’s a connection to yourself.”
Marin folds her arms. “Honestly, I think she’s right. Thesedares aren’t about falling in love with someone else. They’re about remembering who you are. Before Owen. Before the kids. Before Noah. Before the grief.”
Viv nods. “No man is going to rediscover you for you, Birdie. That’s your job now.”
And just like that, I’m staring at the screen again.
Same blinking cursor.
Except this time, I pull up the resume I’ve been editing and re-editing for years, open the link, and start filling out the application.
______________
I’m on my knees in the garden, tugging weeds that have no business growing this aggressively. There’s dirt on my cheek, a smear of something unidentifiable on my leg, and my wine glass is balanced in the mulch like it belongs there. It’s the most glamorous I’ve felt in weeks.
