But now, everyone seemed to fall on one side or the other—friends haggling over a check, strangers sharing the same elevator, and children. She even saw it in Tyler. Lately, he had become more obstinate—refusing to obey and then throwing tantrums that lasted hours. She would print maps from the Internet for him to examine, spill dried macaroni on the floor for him to count, read him entire recipe books—nothing seemed to satisfy him. He had become the Tyler she had only heard of.

A few months after Josie had moved in, Mary confessed that their three previous nannies had quit. “Tyler was too much for them,” she said. “But you two are peas in a pod.” Josie beamed and, after this, shared every one of her and Tyler’s achievements with Mary—Josie taught Tyler to tie his shoes, convinced him to wear jeans, encouraged him to go up to his neck in the swimming pool. Then one day Josie told Mary how she had finally persuaded Tyler to try a bite of broccoli. “It was only a tiny bite,” Josie said, “but it was a bite.” “Yes, well, you can do everything, can’t you?” Mary shot back. Later, Mary had apologized, but after that, Josie kept their successes to herself.

And there had also been that one drunken night last year. After the kids had gone to bed, they had opened a bottle of wine and told stories about their own mothers. “Mine made me wear skirts until I graduated high school,” Mary said. “Mine told an entire dinner party I had gotten my period,” Josie said. They laughed and then Mary was quiet. “Sometimes I wish Tyler was normal,” she said, and when Josie tried to console her, tell her that those feelings had to be expected, Mary interrupted her. “He knows,” she said. “I think he knows I love Maddy more.” She paused, looked at Josie, and said, “But he has you now. Little Miss Perfect.” Josie did not know what to say, and they stared at each other through the thick glaze of drunkenness until Mary laughed and Josie tried to, but she could feel the steely accusation beneath the confession.