the computer, it would be twenty minutes of conversation. Of course, Stephen would chime in on whatever it was. Then there would be an argument. “Go to sleep.”
“But—”
“Oliver.” She summoned her mom voice. “Go to sleep.”
She wondered how many times you uttered that phrase over your life as a parent. Because your day as a parent didn’t end until your child was sleeping. In the life of the full-time parent, it was the only guilt-free, quiet space when you could just be yourself, you could drop your vigilance for a bit, the endless litany of wants and needs ceased for a few hours. She really needed some time to think—about what had happened, about what she was going to do.
On the commute home, she’d scanned the train for the woman she’d met last night. She simultaneously wanted to see her and fervently hoped they’d never cross paths again. There was something about that moment they’d shared, that confessional space, that was more honest and true than any other place in her life right now. She badly wanted that release, and feared it.
What had the other woman said? Wouldn’t it be nice if your problems just went away?
Something about the memory, about the sound of the other woman’s voice, sent a cold finger down her spine. Bad things happen all the time.
Selena closed her eyes, felt sleep tugging at her almost instantly. She wondered how long before she could crawl out of there. She didn’t want to sleep on the floor, wake up at 2:00 a.m. with aching bones. She waited, counting her breaths, listening to the boys. She opened her eyes and met Stephen’s steady gaze.
“Don’t go,” he said, reading her mind.
“Close your eyes,” she answered.
After a while, their breathing grew deep and even. Stephen, her deep sleeper, sounded congested. Oliver, who like her would wake at any sound, shifted and sighed. She got up quietly and left the room, always a tricky maneuver.
She padded down the hall, and closed the door to her bedroom. She took a breath.
There were certain times when she was just Selena. Between her commute and the walk through the front door, where she was alone in the car maybe listening to a podcast, or an audio book, or just driving in silence. She relished it. It was about fourteen minutes. So, twenty-eight minutes a day—on the way to the train, and on the way home—she was just herself.
Or when the kids were asleep and Graham was out, and she could choose what she wanted to do without considering anyone else. When she wasn’t the person she was at the office—efficient, reliable, always bright, on point—or the person she was at home—mom, wife, loving, accommodating, understanding. In the dark leather interior of the car, no one needed or wanted anything from her. It wasn’t a thing. She hadn’t been unhappy. She loved her life, didn’t she? All those smiling social media posts—#grateful #blessedtobestressed #lovemyboys—that’s what she put out there.
Last night there had been screaming, shattering glass, sobbing that miraculously didn’t wake the boys. If it wasn’t their first blowout, it was certainly their worst. Her headache ratcheted up.
But had she been happy?
She and Graham stood on the sidelines at soccer fields and baseball games, smiling, laughing, cheering. They had their foldout event chairs, their cooler filled with water and oranges to share with the team and other parents. There were parties with friends and picnics and lovely family vacations. They had a legion of friends, acquaintances, neighbors. School functions, backyard barbecues, charity auctions, community fun runs. It was a life that they had built—one that seemed to spring up all around them without much thought. And it was a good one. Wasn’t it?
But before all that—what had she wanted to do? What had she wanted to be?
A writer.
For the first time since last night, she let herself cry. She turned on the television and buried her face in a big soft pillow and let it rip. All her anger, sorrow, the fatigue of holding it all in, her fear for what came next released into the cotton. When she was done, she felt better, cleansed.
She needed to think, figure out what to do.
Her phone lay dark and silent on the comforter next to her. Who could she call? Who should she call? No one. Her sweet mother. Her perfect sister. Her successful friends. Who could she tell what a shambles her life was about to become? The only person she wanted to call was Will,