It’s all Hailey Thomas can do to drag herself from her Range Rover after parking in the garage. She had back-to-back showings all day, and two of the clients sent offers for the same property. God, she never used to get this tired. Right now, all she wants is to go inside and have a glass of wine and sit down.

Her daughter, Regan, oblivious, runs inside, still full of energy and noise. Hailey did not know what it was going to be like, being a mom, but she’s pretty sure that she never expected to be completely ignored so often by the person who came out of her body.

She gathers all the stuff up from the seats, including Regan’s backpack and lunchbox and snacks and toys. It will all have to be repacked for tomorrow, but that’s Future Hailey’s problem.

The situation in the fridge is dire, so she calls for a pizza — “Yay, pizza night!” Regan shouts — and they sit down together to watch Frozen for the millionth time.

Regan chews her pizza and watches Anna and Elsa with wide eyes. Her daughter is nine going on five, Hailey thinks. She absolutely refuses to grow up. Hailey asked Regan if she was crushing on any of the boys in her class and Regan looked at her like she was some kind of alien creature.

It’s not Regan’s fault. Hailey spoils her. So does her father. They give her everything. It was bad before the divorce. Now it’s worse.

And Hailey refuses to feel guilty about that. She’s done everything she can to ensure a good life for Regan.

Maybe even some things she shouldn’t have done.

She pushes the thought away. It will all work out in the end. It always did before, right?

She sees a reflection of herself in the darkened window while she’s clearing the plates. She’s lucky, really. She’s still thin and pretty, still able to fit into her old cheerleader outfit if she wants to. (And she did, that one time when she and her ex had waaaaaay too much to drink.) Her skin isn’t as butter-soft as Regan’s anymore, but she doesn’t need Botox. Men still stare at her when they tour the open houses.

So cheer up, she tells herself. Your life isn’t over yet.

Then the phone rings. She sees the name and number, and her heart spasms a little.

Get a grip. It could be anything, she tells herself as she answers. It could be a butt-dial, for God’s sake.

“How are you?” he asks. He sounds chipper. Upbeat. Same tone of voice she uses when selling. She starts to relax. This is a normal call.

“Great,” she says. “Regan and I are having a girl’s night. What’s up?”