She tossed the yogurt in the trash, just in case it was rancid. “You made a pee-pee?”

“Yep!” Then he hunched, crestfallen. “But not in potty.”

“Oh.” Shit. She tried channeling her inner Mary Poppins, despite the headache that had been nagging her since she woke up. “Um, well…mistakes allow thinking to happen.”

He wrinkled his nose. “What you say?”

“Never mind.” So much for staying up last night studying Communicating Positively with Your Toddler. The tips that seemed so practical on the page at ten thirty felt ridiculous in practice today.

“Come see. Come see. Dis way.” He bolted from the kitchen.

She shoved her iPhone into her demi-cup bra—thank God she was wearing one—and gave chase. Please not the sofa. Anywhere but the sofa. While the midcentury loveseat complemented the cottage’s nautical theme, it turned out that white wool wasn’t exactly a toddler-friendly choice.

Mom fail.

Or maybe it was karma being a bitch. After all, scrolling through her former design firm’s Instagram feed a few minutes ago was in clear violation of her New Year’s resolution to live more in the present. But after noticing the foyer’s dust bunnies had not only colonized, but were enjoying a population explosion under the shoe storage bench, she’d found herself escaping through the personal account of her replacement at Urban Interior Studios.

In hindsight, a mistake in more ways than one. Emma Finley wasn’t just leggy and platinum, but she’d also nabbed a coveted design award for a hot new sushi restaurant concept in Providence. And had that been Emma’s Seaport townhome with the wrought-iron fireplace and a Jo Malone candle burning in the background? Good grief—how much was the firm paying her? When Sadie had worked for the group, she’d felt fortunate to afford the rent on a poky South Boston studio.

Her lips crooked up at the memory of her old place with its claw-foot tub and creaky floors. Even after a long day, Sadie would always stroll the three blocks down to M Street Beach to read a few chapters on a park bench.

Ethan had asked her to marry him in that apartment, her back pressed against the Formica countertop while he kneeled on the kitchen rug.

She furrowed her brows.

If Ethan had proposed two and a half years ago, that meant she’d been gone from the firm for how long now? Two years?

Yep. Almost to the day.

Just then, her boob buzzed. Tugging her phone back out, Ethan’s name appeared on her screen.

“Honey. Hi.” Sadie instinctively smoothed a hand over her messy bun. Down the hall, Lincoln hopped from foot to foot, motioning for her to join him. Was it worth telling her husband that his first-floor office might have sprung a leak? A Lincoln-sized leak.

“How’d your meeting go?”

“Mommy! I say come see this silly pee-pee!” Lincoln called. “I still get M&M?”

She’d gobbled the last of the potty-training treats for breakfast. Oops.

“Sore subject,” Ethan groaned. “The meeting was a bust.”