Late that afternoon, at the epicenter of the Magic Kingdom near the life-size bronze statue of Mickey and Walt, a mother freaked out. Poor woman. She had lost her mind. Well, it was understandable. It was hot, and her children were tired and sunburned and overstimulated from having consumed mass quantities of sugar and soda and chocolate. Maybe her younger child wanted to ride all the rides all at the same time. Maybe her older child, weighed down from all the souvenir gifts and Disney pins, had just moaned, “How come I never get what I want!” Maybe a maintenance gate had opened briefly to let a Disney cast member drive through in an electric cart, and maybe the mother had caught a glimpse of the backs of the facades facing Main Street and had been stunned at how it looked like the back of any strip mall in any city in America. Maybe she’d told her boys to come quick—look—for this, she thought, they should see.

It’s a relief when it’s some other mother who has snapped a tether, when you’re not the one making a scene. It’s a relief until you realize that it’s actually you. You see, I was the person raging at her children, the one who lost her bearings, my way of behaving, my sense of perspective, so that amid all the clamor and the approach of security guards, I didn’t have the wherewithal to negotiate a graceful denouement—no, all I could do was shout, shout until I was hoarse from shouting that same word, the only word: Enough. Enough.

TIM

TIM

I WENT HOME TO A PLATE OF TOAST CRUSTS.

Sam’s cereal dried to the sides of the bowl.

The height marks on the pantry door.

Kate’s hairbrush.

The glass with four toothbrushes in the bathroom.

Then I got out a small screwdriver and started to fix the broken cabinet door.

KATE

KATE

“I DON’T BELIEVE IN REGRET,” JEFF SAID IN OUR FINAL MOMENTS TOGETHER.

Well, sure, if you live in your own private Disney World, you can excise mess and garbage and even regret. But for me, regret was all too real.

“I don’t know what happened,” Jeff said. “Am I now some sort of monster to you?”

“No, Jeff, you’re not a monster. You’re an actor.” Then I stuck out my hand. “Good-bye.”

“So that’s how it is now?”

“Yes, that’s how it is.” And we shook hands.

Later, forgoing the limousine Jeff had provided, the boys and I boarded the Disney shuttle and rode it to the airport. It felt good to blend in, to be just another mother traveling with her kids.