“Good,” Trish laughs. “Then maybe you’ll sign the papers.” She stops. “What’s going on? Square with me, Adie Lou. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Although the weather is brutally cold—typical for February in Chicago—it is a bright, sunny day. I watch shoppers scurry past the frost-etched windows of the restaurant. Their cheeks are red, their eyes bright, they look happy, alive, excited to be part of the world.

I can feel my lips quiver and my eyes start to tear.

“Oh, honey,” Trish says, reaching out to grab my hand.

“I’m sorry,” I say, as the waiter drops off our drinks. He thinks I’m talking to him and gives me a sad smile.

“Here,” Trish says, handing me my drink. She lifts hers into the air, and a huge smile comes over her face. She removes her glasses and begins to sing our old sorority drinking song.

“We drink our beers in mugs of blue and gray

“We drink to Zetas who are far away

“And seven days a week we have a blast

“And when the beer runs out we go to class

“And when our college days are never more

“We’ll be alums and then we’ll drink some more

“We are the girls who like to set ’em up and drink ’em up

“For Z-T-A!

“Hey! Hey!

“Z-T-A

“Alpha to Omega say

“oohm-darah, oohm-daray

“Eta Kappa Z-T-A!”

“Cheers!” she says to me, as everyone in RL stares. Trish turns to the patrons and lifts her glass. “Cheers!”

I laugh and take a sip of my manhattan. It feels good to do both.

“That’s what I’m missing in my life,” I say. “Remember those Zeta girls? The ones who thought they could conquer the world, do anything, be anything they wanted?”

Trish nods.

“You did,” I say. “I didn’t.”

“Oh, Adie Lou,” Trish says. “Listen. I hear you. I really do. But I have to be honest. I think it’s the divorce talking. I’ve handled hundreds of divorces, and what you’re feeling is natural. There’s a sense of overwhelming loss, sadness and failure. More than that, many women often feel rudderless and bitter because they sacrificed their lives for their families, and then when the family is grown, their husbands have a midlife crisis and run off with someone half their age. Men used to just buy a damn convertible.”

“He did that, too,” I say.

Trish stifles a laugh. She stops, smiles and sighs. “But you have the greatest accomplishment I’ll never have. A child. Evan is a gift to you and this world.”

I match her sigh. “I know, I know,” I say. “You’re right.”

“And let me be totally clear, Adie Lou,” Trish continues. “You have the chance to start over.”