I trace the rim of my glass with my finger. “You want to know why I keep thinking about Noah?”
They both quiet, leaning in like we’re around a campfire and I’m about to share a ghost story.
“It’s not because he’s hot. I mean, okay, he is, but that’s not it.It’s not even the way he looks at me like I’m still a person and not just… a mother, or a widow, or someone past her expiration date.” I pause, searching for the thing underneath it all. “It’s that—when I’m with him, I forget to brace.”
Viv tilts her head. “Brace?”
“For impact. For disappointment. For the moment someone realizes I’m too much or not enough. I’ve lived most of my life holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And with Noah…” I exhale slowly. “I just breathe. I laugh without checking myself. I talk and I don’t overthink. He listens, like really listens, and he says things that stick in my ribs for days.”
Marin’s eyes are soft now, wine glass forgotten in her lap.
I go on, voice quieter. “When Owen died, I didn’t just lose my husband. I lost the only person who knew me. And I was sure I’d never feel known again. But then there’s Noah. And he sees past the polite thank-you-note me. He teases the messy, weird parts to the surface. The parts I buried a long time ago because they were too loud, or too opinionated, or too damn much.”
“You’re not too much.” Viv’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle.
“I might be.” I feel my lips twist into a wry smile. “But he always could handle it. And now I’m wondering if he still can.”
Marin’s eyes shine. “That sounds a lot like hope.”
I take a sip and nod. “It is. And that’s terrifying.”
We’re tipsy now. Enough for my fear to dissolve into boldness.
Viv reaches for my phone, suddenly inspired. “Muting the thread isn’t enough. Your grief dare for this week is to respond. Not with what you think youshouldsay, but what you actually want to say.”
“Oh no.” Marin’s eyes go saucer-wide.
“Do it,” Viv chants, kicking her feet up. “Write the email. It’s time to break free!”
“Fine.” I grab my phone out of Viv’s outstretched hand. “But that means you and Marin need to do a grief dare this week too.”
“Deal.” Viv nods toward the phone, and Marin nods in solidarity.
I thumb into my inbox and click “reply all” to the PTA thread like a woman possessed. Before I can second-guess myself, I start to type.
Subject: RE: Snack Roster
Hi everyone,
While I appreciate being considered reliable and, apparently, eternally available, I am formally resigning from all snack-related duties and emotional labor tied to themed napkins.
Please note: I am no longer the mother of a current student, nor am I a licensed chef, nor do I possess the mental bandwidth to source nut-free, dye-free, vegan options that also spark joy.
Wishing you all the best in your quinoa-forward future.
Birdie
Marin reads it over my shoulder, her alarm growing with each sentence. “Quinoa-forward future?”
“How else would one end a liberating email?” My finger hovers over the send button as my eyes skim over what I typed.
Viv leans over my shoulder, reading the emboldened words aloud. “Hi everyone….”
Marin gasps, “It sounds even more bold saying it aloud. Can you send that?”
Viv cackles. “Oh, she’s sending it.”
I click SEND before I can think too hard. The whoosh of the email flying off is the sexiest sound I’ve heard in months.
