It was hard to talk about the fact that Brianna made her feel sad and tired these days, and not liking her own child made her feel small and mean. She couldn’t say out loud that she liked Sloane better, and she couldn’t discuss the fear that Brianna would be able to tell, the same way Sadie knew Juliet was the favorite, and this was karma getting Juliet back for being their mom’s favorite.

And now, it would be hard to talk about the creeping terror that if her father could somehow justify cheating on her mother, Oliver would see his point.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Barb

I hadn’t wanted another child. I was too old. My husband and I were both too old to have another child. It was absurd. We had one, and she was—forgive me—perfect.

Juliet had been that way since birth. Since conception, to be honest, because I hadn’t had one day of nausea or swelling or heartburn. And my body was miraculous. I could do everything she needed—nurse her, soothe her, intuitively know when she was about to wake up at night, or when she was coming down with a cold.

She was a happy, healthy, beautiful baby, speaking in full sentences by her first birthday, smiling, a good sleeper. She began reading at three. She was a friend to all her classmates, especially those who seemed to need a little more—the boy who wet his pants every day in kindergarten, or the girl who had a speech impediment. Teacher after teacher told me she was exceptional.

She was Mommy’s girl. John loved her, of course—who wouldn’t?—but he worked more during her childhood. He switched from family law to regulatory compliance, which required him to travel out of state once or twice a week. Sometimes, he’d stay overnight or come home very late, and I loved those mother-daughter nights.

Juliet was the purpose that had been missing in my life, because marriage wasn’t enough, and work had been a placeholder for me. Our house and my role in town were just to prepare the way for Juliet. I was born to be her mother, and we lived in a beautiful world built by the two of us. I made sure she got enough fresh air, taking her for walks every day, first in the pram, then holding her hand. We took our big canvas tote to the library and filled it with books, even when she was tiny, and I read to her for hours. I made nutritious meals and snacks, way ahead of the curve regarding organic, locally sourced food. I chose my words carefully, always explaining to her why she shouldn’t touch something rather than just “because I said so.” Even my voice changed, and my flat upper-midwestern accent morphed into the blander, more cultured Connecticut non-accent.

Every day was bliss. It truly was.