“Oh, Nadia! Out late on a school night?”
The voice makes me stop short—I’m not yet ready for human interaction. But I turn with a smile, ready for my fellow private school mom.
“Hi, Megan.”
Ignoring her isn’t an option—our kids know each other. I’ll probably see her in the drop-off line tomorrow. This is one interaction I can’t screw up. And besides, while I’m not sure I really havefriends—not in the traditional sense—if I did, Megan would be one of them. “Eliza’s not feeling well. Figured she needed Popsicles.”
I’m met with an understanding nod, confirming this is the right thing for a concerned mother to say. “And Mommy needs wine?” She grins and peeks at the three bottles I tossed in my basket alongside the Pedialyte.
I hesitate, thinking of what the mommy-influencers on Instagram would say. “You know it.”
A half laugh. “Well, I hope she feels better. I’ll see you at the PTA breakfast later this week.” Megan air-kisses in my direction and strides off.
That’s another reason I like her—she doesn’t feel the need for extended small talk. A polite hello gets the job done.
Also, I’d forgotten about the PTA breakfast. I promised to bring pastries, and I add it to my already-overloaded mental to-do list.
Five minutes later, I’m searching the darkness of my driveway for shapes, movement. People like me can have enemies. I have tobe cautious to maintain a veneer of normalcy. As a disguise, yes, but also forthem. My family loves me. I want to keep it that way.
Bear, our tricolored Australian shepherd, starts yapping before I so much as make it to the door. She sees me through the window and wiggles excitedly.
“Shut up!” Piper’s voice comes from behind the door as I unlock it. “You’ll wake the kids.”
I smile to myself—if anyone’s going to wake them, it’s her—and let myself in.
“Thanks for watching the girls. They’re asleep?”
Piper sighs with her whole body—one of her many big sister talents—and looks up the curving stairwell that empties out into the foyer we now stand in. She beckons for me to move away from the hall leading upstairs, worried our voices will carry, that the kids will wake back up. It’s a fair concern. My girls love to crawl out of bed, sneak downstairs, and beg to stay up late. And as their mom, sometimes I can’t resist saying yes, letting them snuggle with me on the couch until they fall asleep again and I’m left carrying them back upstairs.
We retreat to the kitchen, and she spins to pin me with a look that makes most people wilt. “What took you so long?”
I don’t answer her question. With Piper, who is as unafraid of confrontation as I am, distraction works best. I hold up a bottle of rosé. “Wine?”
This gives her pause. “I love wine.”
“I know.”
We go to the back patio, where an hour or two ago, we could have watched a golden sun sink beneath the edge of the city. Now, it’s dark, but I’ve strung fairy lights and I turn them on, light a candle. The glow gives the space a warm vibe, makes it feel safe,something I want very much for my family. A sigh of relief eases out of my throat as I sit back and rest easy, knowing there’s one less bad person in the world.
At least until Piper glances my way, an eyebrow raised as she sips her wine. Like she knows something.
Or maybe that’s me being paranoid that someday she’ll put the pieces together, figure it out. And life as I know it will be over. Our brother, Graham, is the complete opposite—utterly clueless—but sometimes I think Piper wonders about me. What I really do when I leave the house to go off to my job.
“Work went well?” she asks, and I tell myself there’s nothing odd about her tone.
I nod, swirl my glass. Murmur something about the bride being happy, which of course is what people want to hear when you supposedly work weddings. It’s a lie fashioned after a short stint I had in college as an events planner’s assistant. I realized it was a field with few rules, a career most people knew nothing about—and therefore, one that was easy to spin lies around. It’s also relatively boring, so I rarelyhaveto lie. Everyone’s been to a wedding reception, a bridal shower, awedding. They already know what’s involved, so they don’t ask questions.
Piper makes a noise in her throat. “I don’t know how you do it.”
I look over, see she has a cigarette in her hand. She won’t light it, not here, but she’ll let it sit, poised between her fingers, let it rest there the way she did when we were teenagers sneaking one when we thought Mom wasn’t looking.
My teeth clench, and I observe her face through the dimness, searching for her meaning. But she’s staring out into the night, watching a squirrel scamper across the fence line.
She means being a parent. Not killing people. That’s what’s onmymind, not hers.
“You just—” I shrug. “One day at a time.”
I don’t tell her that sometimes I wonder if I’d have done things differently if I’d realized what it would really be like to have kids. If I’d known how demanding they would be, how much of myself I’d give up for them—if I’d have kept Eliza when I first readpregnanton that little pink-and-white plastic test.
