8. Chapter 8
Elowen
We don’t have a kitchen table, only that marble counter with the mismatched barstools.
What’s nice about the stools is their different heights and sizes.
I have my phone on the table, while I sit on the highest one.
My fingers hover over my phone screen, hesitating before I tap “Create Account.” It’s been eight years since I’ve had any social media presence of my own.
Eight years of appearing only in Julian’s posts as the perfect corporate wife with her perfect straight hair standing beside her perfect husband.
Not anymore.
I fill in basic demographical information, but pause at the “name” field. For a moment, I type “Elowen Plaza,” then slowly delete each letter, watching them disappear one by one. In their place, I type “Elowen Fallinger.” After so long without use, my maiden name feels wrong.
The app asks for a profile picture. I open my photo library, scrolling past hundreds of perfectly posed family photos.
Between the matching outfits on the beach, coordinated Christmas sweaters, and professional portraits where even the children’s smiles look rehearsed, nothing feels right.
I keep scrolling until I find a selfie I took yesterday after cutting my hair.
My waves frame my face in untamed swirls.
My button nose crinkles slightly with my hesitant smile.
It’s who I am now. Anything else is a lie.
I upload that picture, then begin typing the caption, “This is me. Not the me you might have seen before, the version that used to fit someone else’s idea of perfection. This is me, with my wavy hair and my button nose, and my own thoughts. It’s terrifying, but liberating.”
My thumb hovers over “Post.” One tap, and this declaration goes public. One tap, and I can’t take it back. One tap, and—
“Mommy, why do you look different?”
Leo’s voice startles me, interrupting me seconds before posting the picture. He stands beside my chair, his small hand on the table for balance as he peers at my phone screen.
“Different from what, sweetie?” I ask, though I suspect that I know the answer.
“Your hair is all…” He waves his hand vaguely around his own head. “And you look smaller somehow.”
I set my phone down and pull him onto my lap. He’s getting too big for this, but he doesn’t resist.
“I wanted a change,” I tell him, choosing my words carefully.
“But why would you want to look different?”
“Because being different isn’t bad, Leo. It’s what makes people special.” I run my fingers through his curls, and I have a sudden thought. He inherited these curls from me but never knew because I’ve straightened mine for so long.
He thinks about this, his small face serious. “But Daddy says we should always try to be perfect.”
“Perfect according to whom? What’s perfect to one person might be completely different to another.”
He shrugs. “Daddy says perfect is when everything matches and nothing is out of place.”
“Do you know what would happen if everyone looked exactly the same?” I ask, shifting strategies. “If we all had the same hair, the same nose, the same everything?”
Leo shakes his head.
“It would be so boring. Imagine a classroom where every single student looked identical. How would you find your friends? How would you recognize your teacher?”
“That would be so weird!”
“Exactly!”
His forehead wrinkles again. “But if perfect means no mistakes, and different means not the same as everyone else, then…” He struggles with the logic.
“Who decides what’s a mistake and what’s just unique?” I counter. “What’s your favorite animal?”
“Lions,” he answers without hesitation.
“And what if someone told you bears were better, and lions were wrong?”
“That’s silly! Lions can’t be wrong. They’re just animals!”
I smile at his perfect child-logic. “And that’s my point.”
Next, my son surprises me. “Remember my castle of misfits I built at that fancy party?” I do remember, so I nod. “It reminds me of that stray cat I saw at the park yesterday. It’s not fair that not every animal has a home.”
Something clicks into place as I listen to him.
They’re just being themselves. And for years, I haven’t been.
I’ve always loved animals, but since Julian found them too messy and claimed he has allergies—which I honestly question if it’s true or not—I ignored that part of myself.
And that’s my fault, too. Maybe even more than Julian’s.
I sacrificed parts of myself for him, but I didn’t have to.
I could have refused, could have stuck with who I was, even if it meant losing him.
While Leo stares, I grab my laptop next to me, open it, and navigate to the nearest animal shelter’s website. It’s bare bones.
“You know what?” I say, looking back at my phone screen, where my authentic self waits to be shared with the world. “You’re absolutely right. It isn’t fair.”
After pressing “Post,” I check the time on my phone: two-fifteen p.m. There’s plenty of time before dinner, and I have an idea.
“Hey,” I say, giving Leo a conspiratorial smile. “Want to go on an adventure? Go get your sister and put your shoes on.”
“Where are we going?” he asks, already sliding off my lap.
“To meet some animals who are perfect just the way they are.”
The Seattle King Co Animal Shelter, or “SKCAS” for short, looks nothing like I expected.
In my mind, I’d pictured something modern with cheerful murals of paw prints and large glass windows, like something you’d find in Malibu.
Instead, it’s a squat, cinderblock building with a gravel parking lot and a simple chain-link fence surrounding a yard.
It’s not Instagram-worthy, and it’s not their fault.
These things cost money, and as much as humans say they love animals, I’m not surprised at the low funding.
“It smells funny,” Meredith announces as we approach the entrance, her hand firmly in mine.
Leo trails behind us. “Will the animals be in cages?”
“Some of them, probably,” I answer honestly. “The workers can’t have them roaming around.”
“Will there be bears and lions?”
I laugh. “No.”
The metal door squeaks as I pull it open. Inside, the shelter smells of bleach layered with the unmistakable scent of animals. To our right is a wall of metal cages holding various cats. To our left is a hallway that, based on the sound of barking, leads to the dog kennels.
Directly ahead of us stands a counter, and behind it sits a woman who appears to be in her late fifties, early sixties.
Her white hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, and her face has the weathered look of someone who spends hours outside every day.
She doesn’t glance up when we enter, as she’s busy writing on some sort of ledger on the counter.
We approach the counter, and still, she doesn’t acknowledge us, so I clear my throat. Not to be rude, but because, given her age, I wonder if maybe she didn’t hear us come in.
“We don’t have any room for surrenders today,” she says, still without looking up. “Intake is on Tuesdays and Thursdays only.”
Briefly, I check behind me, wondering if a dog followed us in and the woman thinks we’re placing it for adoption.
Nope, it’s just me and my children.
“Actually, we’re not here to surrender an animal,” I reply. “We’re here to help.”
This gets her attention. She raises her head, eyes narrowed as she assesses us. Her gaze is something I personally recognize. It’s the same one I used when screening Julian’s potential clients, separating those with genuine business from those just looking for a connection to his influence.
“I’m Elowen Pl—” I stop and correct myself. “Elowen Fallinger. These are my children, Meredith and Leo.”
“Beatrix Hale,” she responds, offering nothing more. Her eyes flick from me to the children and back. “Help how, exactly? We’re not a petting zoo, and I don’t have time to supervise a cute little photo op with the animals for your social media followers.”
Ouch. The assumption stings, but I don’t flinch.
“Actually, I was thinking more about administrative help,” I say, my voice steady. “I noticed your website hasn’t been updated, and your donation system is manual only. You only accept check or mail-order cash, rather than digital payment options.”
“That’s correct.”
“I spent ten years as an executive secretary and office manager. Organization is what I do best. So I brought my children to see the animals, maybe feed them and clean their cages while I supervise, of course, and then offer my expertise.”
Beatrix’s expression remains skeptical.
“For example,” I continue, gesturing to the paper ledger in front of her, “I could digitize your record-keeping system by setting up spreadsheets that automatically calculate your monthly intake and costs. I’d also create an email prompt that sends an automatic thank-you from our web-based payment services. ”
“And what would you get out of this?” Beatrix asks, arms crossing over her chest.
The question catches me off guard. What am I looking for? It’s not like the animal shelter can match the salary I got as Julian’s executive assistant—though I do know Julian will pay child support and alimony if I ask, which I will.
“To show my children what matters,” I answer simply. “A way to use my skills for something I can be proud of.”
Meredith tugs at my hand. “I want to see the kitties, Mommy.”
“In a minute, sweetie,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Beatrix. “I’m also thinking about your grant applications. When was the last time you applied for county funding?”
Her brows rise slightly. “How do you know about that?”
“The financial firm I worked at donated to charities on a quarterly basis. I know the basics. The county offers matching grants to animal welfare organizations, but you have to have proper documentation and financial records. I could help get organized with that, too.”
“Bold of you to assume we haven’t applied already.”
Shoot. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”