“Okay.” She drops her voice. “Like, I love this little guy, truly. But sometimes, when it’s just the two of us in the house all day, I fantasize about just running away somewhere. Or going out to take a walk. I’d never do it, of course,” she rushes to add. “But I just have this feeling like … I’m never going to be alone again.”

“Nanny,” Jess trills. “I’m telling you. Quit this attachment parenting crap and get yourself a nanny. And if she’s hot, she can even occupy your husband so you don’t have to.”

I slap Jess’s arm. “Don’t say that. You’d be totally devastated if Rob ever did cheat.”

“Would I though? One less thing I’d have to do at night,” she mumbles.

“That’s not attachment parenting,” I assure Beth. “That’s how every new mom feels sometimes.”

Beth bounces Trevor, her voice vibrating. “But am I a terrible human? Are you both sitting there judging me?”

“We don’t have time to judge you,” Jess jokes.

“You never complain, Rebecca,” Beth says.

“Who, me?” I ask. “I complain.”

I imagine Beth and Jess giving each other a look. “You don’t,” Jess says. “Ever. Which makes zero sense, considering…”

Considering your husband and mother died and you’re raising a baby all by yourself.

I shrug. “I learned a long time ago that complaining doesn’t change anything, so why bother?”

“Complaining is my hobby,” Beth says. “And I realize I don’t have anything to complain about. I mean, not really.”

I roll my eyes. “Beth, you’re allowed to feel however you want. Don’t compare your life to mine. For your own good.”

“But your baby is perfect,” Beth whines. “If you ever want to trade, just let me know.”

I laugh. “I’ll let you know.” I tune in and out as they gripe about their babies and husbands. I add in my two cents, wanting to tell them my deepest thoughts on the subject, but decide against it. Their voices come and go. My eyes flutter—closed, open, closed, open—and before I know it, I’ve accidentally fallen asleep.

2

BEC

After the park—and my unexpected nap—I listen for other people crossing the intersection and begin the grid-like walk back toward the house. I think of the chores I need to finish and the dinner I will prepare: steak, salad, and roasted rosemary potatoes. The steps I will go through. How I will set the table. How I will rely on timers and taste.

I approach the front of the house and fold my cane. Sweat has cropped up along my forehead. I wick away the moisture and fish my key from my back pocket. I bring it to the lock, but it smacks air. I reach forward and find the lock with my fingers.

The door is open.