Chapter 25 #2
“Thanks for adding Michigan to the calendar,” Gwen said finally. Polite. A stranger at a PTA meeting.
“Yeah.” Maggie picked at a loose thread in the blanket. “I figured you’d want a heads-up.”
Gwen’s gaze flicked, just once, toward the camera. “I hope you have… a good trip.”
A good trip. Like she was going to Cabo with a girls’ group text and SPF 50, not to a wedding where her best friends would promise forever and she’d sit in the second row pretending she didn’t believe in it anymore.
“Sure,” Maggie said and killed the call before Gwen could be decent about anything else.
She stared at her black laptop screen until her own reflection came into focus. She didn’t recognize the woman in it. She looked like someone who’d misplaced a life and was pretending she’d meant to.
“Divorce,” she said out loud to no one, testing the weight. It just sat there, heavy as wet wool.
If that’s what you want, I’ll give it to you.
She closed her eyes, and for a rotten, traitorous second, wished Gwen had said anything else.
She let herself into the house just after sunrise, the keys slipping soft in the lock. The quiet inside had a particular weekday-morning quality — not sleepy exactly, but waiting, as though the walls themselves knew the routine was about to start. The kids were still asleep upstairs.
It should have felt like coming home. Instead, it felt like trespassing.
Her own backpack slumped by the door, her jacket draped over the hook — small signs of her life scattered here like evidence. Yet as she walked through the kitchen, Maggie had the strangest sensation of sneaking, of stealing a moment she no longer had any right to.
Maybe this is how Gwen feels, she thought, when it’s her weekend. A guest in a house she built, tiptoeing through her own kitchen.
The smell of coffee reached her first. Then she saw Gwen on the couch, legs tucked under her, hair still damp from the shower, a book open in one hand and a mug in the other.
She looked… soft. Casual. Not the polished, armored version Maggie had last seen on the virtual therapy call — all even voice and mediation talk.
Gwen glanced up, startled at first, then composed in an instant. “You’re here early.”
Maggie hovered in the archway, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands. “Yeah. Wanted to be here when the kids woke up.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy but not sharp. Just strange. Maggie had said the D-word only two days ago, and now here they were, sharing air, sharing coffee steam and morning light. Her throat tightened.
“You can sit,” Gwen said finally, voice low, cautious. Not quite an invitation — more like an allowance.
Maggie almost did. Almost crossed the room, curled into the other end of the couch, asked what she was reading. Muscle memory tugged at her. Instead, her feet stayed rooted.
“I should start breakfast,” she said instead, already backing toward the kitchen.
Gwen’s gaze lingered for a second longer, unreadable, before dropping back to her book.
By the time Maggie turned around, the front door had clicked shut. Gwen was gone.
She stood in the kitchen, palms braced against the counter, staring at the empty space where Gwen’s mug had sat so many mornings. The quiet pressed in, thick as syrup.
Then came the thunder of little feet.
Arlo and Jude tumbled in first, already arguing about who had won their pillow fight, hair sticking up in every direction. Rosie followed, dragging her pink duck by the foot.
“Breakfast,” she demanded, climbing onto her stool.
“Yeah, yeah,” Maggie said, fumbling for bowls. “Cereal first, or we’ll all regret it.”
The twins groaned theatrically but sat. She poured cereal, added milk, slid bowls across the counter, marveling at how her kids could inhale food like they were auditioning for an eating contest.
Once spoons were scraping and tempers cooling, she leaned against the counter, sipping her own coffee. The morning still felt heavy, strange with Gwen’s absence pressed up against her presence just minutes ago.
Rosie licked milk from her spoon and announced, “We should bake something today.”
“Like what?” Maggie asked.
“Muffins,” Arlo said instantly. “With chocolate.”
“Yeah, muffins,” Jude echoed, mouth full.
Maggie laughed, surprising herself with the sound. “Muffins it is. But you’re all sous-chefs, and you have to follow the boss’s orders.”
Rosie puffed up, clearly pleased. “I’m the boss of sugar.”
“Obviously,” Maggie said, pulling the flour from the pantry. “Use your powers wisely.”
Chaos bloomed instantly. Flour dusted the counters like first snow, Jude dropped half an eggshell into the bowl, Arlo tried to fish it out with his fingers, and Rosie dumped a mountain of sugar that could have fueled a small village.
Maggie laughed, loud and unguarded, her heart tugging at the sight of all three kids orbiting her in their sticky, noisy way.
She was wiping chocolate from Jude’s cheek when the front door opened.
Her chest hitched.
And then Gwen’s voice floated in, tentative: “I just forgot a file for work.”
The kids froze for a split second, then erupted like fireworks. “MOM!”
They barreled down the hall, feet pounding, Rosie nearly toppling off her stool in her rush to reach her. The twins collided with Gwen’s legs, arms wrapping tight. Rosie climbed up her like a koala.
“You’re here!” Rosie squealed, muffled against Gwen’s blazer. “We never get both moms anymore.”
The twins echoed her, chanting, “Both moms, both moms,” until Maggie had to press her palm flat to the counter just to stay upright.
Gwen crouched, folder forgotten, arms full of their kids, her laugh breaking in that startled, fragile way Maggie remembered from a thousand small moments — birthday candles, spilled cereal, chaos that made her soften. A strand of hair had slipped from her clip, catching on her cheek.
And Maggie, standing with the spoon still in her hand, felt the ache hit bone deep.
Because Rosie was right. They didn’t get this anymore. Not the noise, not the togetherness. Not both. Not for a long time.
“Hey,” Gwen said finally, looking up at her. Just one word. Careful.
“Hey,” Maggie answered, her voice rougher than she wanted.
The kids tugged at Gwen’s hands, babbling about eggs and chocolate chips and Rosie’s sugar coup. For a moment, it almost felt like before — like an ordinary Monday morning when the house was alive and whole.
Then Gwen straightened, folder in hand again, smoothing her jacket back into place. “I’ve got to get to the office.”
A collective groan. Rosie’s lip wobbled. “But… muffins.”
Gwen kissed the top of her head. “Save me one.”
The twins chorused promises. Rosie beamed through her pout.
The door shut, and the house felt too quiet, even with the kids still shouting about who got to lick the spoon.
Maggie stirred the batter hard, forcing a smile. “All right, sous-chefs. Let’s make these the best muffins ever.”
The house looked the same, smelled the same, sounded the same — and yet it wasn’t.