Liz gave me a motherly pat on the arm. “Guess what, ladies? Construction on the She Shed starts tomorrow.” She clasped her hands together in prayer form.

My eyes widened. It had started as a joke a few months ago, that we should have a clubhouse. We sketched it out on the back of a field trip form. It had a wet bar, a wine fridge, a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, pink velvet couches, fiddle-leaf fig plants (“I think those are supposed to be kept in the house,” I said, to which my friends waved their hands around. “The plant will be kept alive by witnessing our friendship,” Jess responded.), jute rugs, fuzzy blankets, and himmeli on the wall. Basically, a living Instagram post that we would enjoy without any hint of irony.

The next week, Liz texted all of us: Ladies, the She Shed blueprints are safely in my care.

Before Jess or I could react to the news, we heard a thud and a bloodcurdling scream from upstairs. Liz gave an exasperated sigh, waiting a moment to see if her husband, Tim, would leave his home office to intervene. Through the door, we could hear his elevated lawyer-speak. When he didn’t so much as peek his head out, she threw her hands up and ran up the stairs to investigate.

I felt the wine/gasoline course through my veins and exhaled loudly. It felt like the longest day of my life. My son, Jack, had had his last day of first grade. He ran out of Winchester Elementary, screaming, wearing a handmade Dr. Seuss hat covered in marker, to where his five-year-old sister, Emily, and I stood. We waited outside Door 1, politely chatting with the other moms, lamenting that I couldn’t have volunteered more during the year due to my busy schedule job hunting for a social worker position.

I still hadn’t found one.

After school, it had been ice cream, a playdate that left my couch covered in marker, another pizza dinner, and more ice cream to celebrate the last day of school. All the while waiting for my monthly movie night with my neighbor friends. It sometimes felt like these nights were my only true escape, among people who understood and accepted me.

Liz appeared back down the stairs, wearing old gray sweatpants instead of light-colored jeans.

“Sorry, ladies. Luke wanted another drink of water. It’s his latest trick for stalling bedtime. Of course he spilled it all over me,” she said. “Bedtime is just so hard.”

I glanced at the clock. Nine fifteen p.m. “Where’s Melissa? Is she still coming?”

We turned as we saw a flash of light, Melissa’s giant Infiniti SUV pulling into the driveway.

“On cue,” Jess said as she took another swig from her glass of tequila. “Only Melissa would drive two blocks instead of walking.”