There is a pause in the conversation, the former buzz and hum silent. I look up, aware that everyone is looking at me. Waiting.

“You’re not going to keep going back… are you?” Nic’s leaning forward, hands folded in her lap, and she’s like the Kristen Davis character in Sex and the City—so good and earnest, so determined to remain good and earnest. It hits me yet again that in the divorce I divorced goodness and earnestness along with Daniel. I divorced the pretense that I was anything but me… that I’d want anything but happiness. Happiness for me. Happiness for the kids.

“Why not?” I ask, trying not to fidget even as I try to disguise how I object to the intrusive quality of the questions. Is it really any of their business? Why should it matter to them if I go or don’t go? How will it impact my friendship with them?

My arms are folded across my chest as I sit back in the tall wing chair in Nic’s living room. She inherited the chairs from her grandmother, and they’re every bit as conservative as I imagine her grandmother used to be. “I like Hawaii.”

“But that’s not why you go.” Nic has become a bulldog, eerily similar to Anne when Anne has a burr in her tail.

“You go,” Nic continues as if I cannot follow her, can’t put this together, “because of Kai.”

“Mmmm.” It’s the most I can commit to. I’m irritated and fast becoming angry. If my friends don’t see enough of me lately, maybe it’s because I don’t find their company as enjoyable as I used to. We’re adults. Friends. Equals. But lately the balance of power seems to have shifted.

As the three of them sit looking at me, my frustration grows. “I’m happy there,” I say defensively.

“But what about the kids?” Nic persists, and I suck in air through my teeth, hold it in the back of my throat. It’s that or scream, because that pocket of air is keeping the scream of vexation from getting out. Nic’s delicate brunette beauty is so deceptive. She’s slender, small boned, high cheekbones, wide brown eyes—and tenacious.

And it hits me that she’s more like Anne than I ever thought.

More like Kris.

They’re all so… strong. So fixed and opinionated.

Is this how I used to be, back before life as I knew it ended, forcing me to become someone else?

Did I use to be so confident? Confident to the point of smugness? I don’t remember ever seeing myself that way, but somehow I think I must have been. It was part of our bond as women, as friends. We are wives and mothers. First. Last. Always.