They went to a giant, anonymous, air-condition-blasted Mexican restaurant around the corner from the office, where they sat at a tall round bar table and ordered three margaritas and a bowl of chips. One of the women was married without kids—this was Clara—and one was married with a three-year-old boy. This was Sandy. As they waited for their drinks to arrive, Sandy complained about her mother, who called her four times a day and said nothing. Sandy ended each of her sentences on an upswing. “She just keeps calling?” she said. “And I’m like, Mom, nothing’s changed since lunchtime?”

“That’s better than my mother,” said Clara. “She’s dating a man ten years younger than she is and she keeps texting me photos of her outfits to see if they’re ‘on fleek.’ I keep telling her nobody says ‘on fleek’ for real, but she’s not getting it.” They all had a good laugh about that, and the waitress delivered their drinks.

Clara and Sandy turned to Sherri expectantly and said, “What about your mother?”

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” said Sherri.

“I’m sorry!” the women said in unison. A pall fell across the table, and Sherri reproached herself for bringing the festive mood down.

“Don’t be,” said Sherri. “It was a long time ago.” She almost said, “It had no bearing on the rest of my life,” but of course it had all the bearing on the rest of her life, because when she met Bobby she was so fragile and motherless that she succumbed fairly readily to his charms. She took a giant swig of her margarita to show that it was all right.

“Oh, you know what?” said Sandy. “I’m taking this mindfulness class? And this one thing they suggested? Writing the story of your life in fairy tale form!”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Clara. She dipped a chip in the salsa.

“Apparently it results in big waves of self-acceptance washing over you?” said Sandy. “I haven’t tried it yet. Mine’s due next class?”

“I think it sounds like a lot of fun,” said Sherri. “I might give it a try myself.”

She could see Sandy and Clara looking at her sympathetically, as though they all knew that Sherri’s fairy tale would be pathetically boring but were too polite to say so.

Once upon a time, thought Sherri. There was a woman who lived in a house with a pool and had a maid who came three times a week and a husband named Bobby and a kitchen straight out of a magazine. And then one day, this woman learned something terrible.

It was always a dog walker, wasn’t it?