I had fun with Troy; he was attentive and generous, an ego boost that I desperately needed. He came from old Toronto money and drove a BMW, and he showed me a side of the city—the privileged side—that I could never have afforded on my own. He was ambitious too, and he was spending the summer interning at a big corporate law firm.
But Troy felt like a summer fling, and we drifted apart in September. We probably wouldn’t have lasted much longer, except I got pregnant. It came as a shock; I wasn’ton the pill since the hormones made me feel sick, but we’d always used condoms. And I was terrified to tell Troy; we’d only been together a few months, and I didn’t know how he’d react. Maybe he’d claim the baby wasn’t his.
To his credit, once he got over his shock, Troy didn’t question that the baby was his. He even admitted that a few weeks before, he’d wondered if a condom had slipped. He’d managed to convince himself nothing had leaked, so he hadn’t mentioned it to me.
And to his credit, Troy didn’t question my decision to keep the baby. In fact, a week later he surprised me by suggesting we get married. He’d been raised with old-fashioned values, and he wanted to do the right thing. Of course, I said yes. Which is how, five months after I broke up with Luke to focus on my career, I was engaged to another man and pregnant with his child.
So. I wouldn’t be surprised if Luke’s parents don’t see me in a warm and fuzzy light.
I pull into the Carltons’ driveway and take a deep breath. The house, an ivy-covered Tudor, hasn’t changed much in the past decade. I spent a lot of time here as a teenager, since Luke’s parents didn’t hover the way my mother did.
I gather my nerve, walk to the door, and knock. A couple of minutes pass, but no one answers. Just as I’m starting to get concerned, I hear voices from the backyard.
I walk around the side of the house and find Mrs. Carlton and Liam kneeling in the garden. Liam’s got a smudge of dirt on one cheek and a streak of something red—maybe strawberry jam—on the other. He looks like he’s having a great time.
Liam sees me first. “Mama!” he shouts happily. “I had PopTarts for breakfast!”
“That’s great, sweetie,” I say, reaching down to ruffle his hair.
“Melissa.” Mrs. Carlton stands and greets me with a smile. She’s dressed for yard work, in faded jeans, an ancient yellow sweater, and running shoes. Her dark hair’s gone gray but the style’s the same, a tidy bob that brushes her shoulders.
“Mrs. Carlton,” I reply nervously.
“Call me Helen,” she says briskly. “As I recall, we used to know each other rather well.”
“Helen,” I amend. “Thank you so much for watching Liam.”
“No trouble,” she says easily. “He’s been helping plant the tulip bulbs. How’s your daughter doing?”
“Claire’s much better, thank you. They moved her out of the ICU this morning.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Luke would never forgive himself if anything happened to her.”
“He’s been very good to her. To all of us.”
She nods. “And you’ve moved back to Somerset?”
“Yeah. I just got divorced, and I decided to come back. My parents are eager to see more of the kids, and I’m keen to have some childcare help.”
Another nod. “And are you working in tech?”
I hesitate for a moment, wishing I could say I’d founded a startup, sold it for millions, and taken early retirement. Or even that I’d worked at all. When I was a teenager, Mrs. Carlton was basically my role model: a woman who was able to juggle her family and a successful career. She put in long hours at her law practice, but still managed to make it to Luke’s big hockey games and his sister Adrienne’s swim meets.
But I never ended up working in tech. I had Claire a few weeks after my final undergrad exams, so I deferredmy Master’s for a year. And by the following year, Troy was working crazy hours as an associate at a law firm. If I’d gone back to school, Claire would have barely seen either of her parents, and I just couldn’t do it.
“No. No, I’m not working right now,” I admit. “Liam’s in preschool, but it’s only half days, and I wanted the time with him. I plan to look for a job next year, when he’s in kindergarten.”
Mrs. Carlton smiles. “You did all right in the divorce, then?”
“Yeah, I did okay.” My lawyer thought I could have done better; I’d finished a computer science degree and been accepted to a Master’s program, but given it up to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. But if it weren’t for the kids, I’d have been tempted to reject spousal support entirely. It would have been very satisfying to tell Troy where to stuff his money, even if it meant living on Kraft Dinner in a basement apartment.
“You said Liam’s in preschool half days,” Mrs. Carlton says thoughtfully. “Would you want to work during that time?”
“I guess so, sure.” It’s an easy question to answer, since I can’t imagine who would hire me for three hours a day. My ten-year-old degree is unlikely to get me far, even when Liam’s in school and I can work full-time.
“I’m friends with Carole Chan, the principal of Brookline College,” Helen tells me. Brookline’s a prestigious all-girls’ private school in town. “One of their math teachers took an unexpected leave, right at the start of the school year, and they haven’t been able to fill the position. It might be an opportunity for you.”
I blink at her in confusion. “I don’t have a teaching degree.”
