We followed her to the edge of the fence, where an area of grass had been cleared out. Liz reached into her pocket and pulled out four small, woven circles. “These are for each of you. I saw an ad on Instagram and had to buy them.” She passed out the circles, black bracelets of woven string, with a small charm in the middle, engraved with Stronger with You. I did a slight internal eye roll at the corniness, but I knew it was genuine.

“Liz, you’re the best,” I said as she passed them out.

After we put the bracelets on, Liz lifted her glass in the air. “To our friendship, and having a place to call our own. I love you girls.”

“To those who wish us well, and the rest can go to hell,” Jess added, her volume rising with every word, before we clinked our glasses together and then poured a little of our drinks into the dirt.

As the liquid absorbed into the ground, a strong, chilling breeze whipped through the yard and tinkled the wind chimes across the street. We paused and looked at each other, glasses still held in the air.

“Well, that was weird,” I said.

“I think that was a good sign,” Liz said with a laugh.

I can definitively say, now, that it was not.

—

On my walk home later that night, I was careful not to trip on any cracks in our uneven sidewalk. I tightened my sweatshirt around my waist in the cool night air. It was technically summer, although Chicagoland didn’t really warm up until July. Then we would have two glorious months of warmth before the Midwest weather reared her head and we’d have to dig out the snow boots and pants and buy more gloves because one always mysteriously disappeared, banished to the Island of the Unmatched Winter Paraphernalia.

I took a deep breath and looked around as I inched along. The Whispering Farms subdivision was built in the 1960s, as a planned community. The houses in the neighborhood were one of four styles: colonial, Dutch Colonial, ranch, and split-level. A few houses had been torn down and replaced by custom-built homes—one of which Melissa lived in. We lived in a decidedly non-updated Dutch Colonial version with a powder-blue furnace that I think saw the Kennedy assassination.

I walked up to my front door, Foster Family neatly stenciled on the mailbox, and slowly pushed it open. I tiptoed past Mark, who had fallen asleep on the couch. I winced as the steps creaked and glanced at the clock next to my bed: midnight. The kids would be awake in a few hours, early risers since they were born. The next day would be filled with the splash pad, more snacks, staving off requests to bring the Playskool inflatable bounce house (my nemesis) outside, dragging out the sprinkler, more snacks.

And I was going to feel like hell.

CHAPTER
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