I say nothing, as I don’t know what to say. After being with Daniel nearly fifteen years, I know him so well, but what I know—what worked—doesn’t work anymore. As an ex-spouse, you’re familiar and not, known and yet criticized. Once loved but now rejected.

“Do you ever think you’ll get back together?” Nic asks hopefully. She’s probably my one friend who would like to see a reunion romance. I don’t know if it’s her Catholic upbringing (she taught both public and parochial school) or the statistics she shared with me about children of divorce (they’re more likely to get divorced than children raised in stable nuclear families), but she’s taken our divorce quite hard.

“No,” I answer bluntly, smiling tightly, not wanting to think of those statistics, hating to imagine Jessica or William going through what I’m going through. “Have to move forward. Can’t go back.”

Then suddenly I’m looking ahead, thinking of all the holidays and Christmases to come. Next year, I won’t have the kids for Christmas. The first time I will not be with my kids for Christmas since William’s birth nine years ago. How can I not have my kids at Christmas? How could Daniel and I have divided up the holidays this way?

I’m scared, I think, so scared. What will I do without the kids for Christmas? What will Christmas morning be like without stockings?

“So you don’t have any regrets?” Nic persists, leaning across the counter to snag a chip and wedge of cheese.

Stomach in knots, I watch as Anne spreads warm baked Brie in my flaky pastry crust on an apple slice. The reason I’ve lost weight is that I can’t eat, can’t swallow, can’t do much but feel like shit for putting the children through this.

“Of course there are always regrets,” I force myself to say, “but the worst regrets are when I need help and there’s no one to offload on. When I can’t call Daniel and say, ‘Grab William from baseball,’ or, ‘Stop by the store and get milk.’ But we’re learning. Adapting. If we’re out of milk, I pack up the kids and we go to the store. Or we go without.”

Anne sighs heavily, dramatically, going for a laugh. “Which would mean no Cocoa Puffs.”

She gets the laugh. I’m laughing, at least. “Shut up about the damn Cocoa Puffs.”

Everyone joins in the laughter, and the tension’s broken. We drift into a new discussion and stand around the island, snacking and sipping champagne. Time passes, and it’s so relaxed and happy and easy that I’m jolted when Kris’s husband appears in the kitchen with his coat, saying that they have to go.