18
Back at home, I freshen up in the bathroom, with a close eye on Sabrina, who’s presently unfurling a roll of toilet paper,
but at least it keeps her busy as I run a brush through my thin hair and swipe on some lipstick.
While Sabrina shreds toilet paper on the floor, I look around the house, thinking about Adam—his eagerness to help, the way
he looked at me in the parking lot. Is there something more going on between us than just friendly parent stuff? I tell myself
I’m overthinking things. This is 2024, after all. Men and women can be friends, have lunch together, even—especially neighbors
who happen to be parents of toddlers.
While there’s nothing shameful about being a stay-at-home mom, I can’t help but wonder if I’m happy, fulfilled, under these
circumstances. Yes, being a mom is an important job— the most important job—and for some women, that’s enough. But me? I’m not so sure. Is motherhood the core of my identity? Or
am I merely treading water, secretly longing for the shore?
I peer through the final doorway along the hall, the one closest to the kitchen. It’s an office, and obviously mine—the framed photo of a ferry pulling into foggy Bainbridge Island being the dead giveaway. The desk is neat and tidy, aside from the withered rose in a bud vase, bearing evidence of the space’s obvious lack of use, as does the powered-off Mac monitor, which sits at attention beside a leatherbound notebook.
Holding Sabrina, I sink into the beige sherpa-fleece-covered desk chair, swiveling in a few full circles, which makes her
cry with joy. What do I do here? Or, rather, what did I do—before I became a mom?
The answer, it seems, is right in front of my eyes. I notice the vintage film camera by the window, then the two framed movie
posters on the side wall, one of which appears to have won an award at the Sundance Film Festival. Upon closer inspection,
both feature my name: Lena Lancaster: Director of Photography .
I’m a cinematographer? It doesn’t make sense, and yet it does. I’ve always been visual, always seen life through a certain
lens. So I turned that into a career—and a thriving one, it seems—but then... gave it all up for motherhood?
I check on Sabrina and see that she’s moved on to tearing pages out of a magazine, so I decide to power up the Mac and get
to know myself better, at least this version of myself. Fortunately, my trusty old password—“RosieOnTheIsland99”—works like
a charm, and I log in to my email, overcome with curiosity, especially when I see a message at the top with the subject line
“Pending Divorce Proceedings.”
I gulp, opening the email.
Dear Lena,
I hope this finds you well. Per our phone call, attached is a draft of the dissolution paperwork. Please have a look and let
me know if you have any questions. Two final matters for discussion: 1. Parenting plan details for Sabrina, and 2. Division
of assets (i.e., assuming you’ll be vying for the house, yes, and the Land Rover?). Please have a look and then let’s set
up a call to hash out the remaining details. With any luck, you’ll be legally separated by this time next month.
Regards,
Beth
—
Beth Remington, Esq.
The Law Offices of Taylor, McHugh a few, altogether awful. But some of them? I would have been happy if they stayed awhile—or even forever. I longed
for a father, but even more, I longed for a family —a stable one—and here I am, on the verge of repeating history. How can I do that to Sabrina?
I sigh, glancing at the clock. Adam can wait. I need to call Frankie.
“Hi,” I say, pausing, unsure of what to say or where to begin.
“Hey,” she says, her tone cheery and upbeat. “Sorry about all the voice mails. I know you hate voice mails.”
“I do hate voice mails,” I reply with a laugh. “And I didn’t listen to any of them, so you’re going to have to repeat yourself.”
“I know you’re going through a lot. I just called to let you know that I’m here for you. You’re not alone.”
“But, Frankie, I am alone— so alone.” Sabrina crawls over and pulls herself up on my leg, immediately negating my words as she happily pats my left leg,
banging it like a drum. “Well, aside from you, and Sabrina, obviously.”
“Aww, my sweet girl,” she says, gushing. “Tell her that Auntie Frankie misses her so much!”
I smile, touching the edge of her plump cheek.
“What’s the latest... with Marcus? Are you guys talking? Are you working on things?”
I exhale deeply, lifting Sabrina onto my lap. “The same, I guess? And no, we’re not really talking.”
“Maybe give therapy another try?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Lene, he’s a good guy. I can’t help but wonder if the two of you aren’t just drowning in the stress of parenthood, you know?
I mean, Christian and I were at our wits’ end after the twins were born.”
Frankie has twins? I manage to refrain from acting surprised.
“It got really bad there for a while,” she continues with a laugh. “Hey, maybe I could fly out and stay with Sabrina for a
weekend, while you two have a little getaway?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, maybe. Thanks, Frankie. I’ll think about it.”
“Good,” she says. “Just promise me that you won’t make any rash decisions right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
With Sabrina on my hip, I stand on Adam’s front stoop, staring at the doorbell cautiously, thinking about the pages of text
messages between the two of us that I’d found on my phone earlier. While I only skimmed them, and they seemed harmless enough,
I can’t shake the feeling that we’re toeing a dangerous line.
I take a step back, reconsidering this lunch/playdate/whatever you might call it, when the door swings open.
“Lena!” he says, a little surprised, with his daughter strapped into a carrier against his chest.
I smile nervously as Sabrina squeals with delight, arching her back as she attempts to wriggle free. Obviously, she’s been
here before—perhaps many times before.
“Come on in and make yourselves at home.”
I nod, heading inside the mid-century home, similar to ours but a bit more bohemian, with Turkish rugs, Ikat floor pillows, and the faint scent of incense in the air. I eye the uncorked bottle of white wine on the kitchen counter beside two empty glasses.
“Hey,” Adam says, lifting Charlotte out of the carrier. “Mind holding her for a sec while I run out to the garden to snip
a few sprigs of tarragon for our salad?”
“Uh, okay,” I say as he plops her into my arms.
“She really loves you.” He grins as his daughter reaches for my necklace and begins yanking. Fortunately, I narrowly avoid
strangulation when she notices Sabrina playing with her toys on the rug and flaps her arms to be let down.
Charlotte touches Sabrina’s nose, then giggles. Her platinum-blond hair is either genetic or a product of the California sun—hard
to tell. I wonder about her mother. Perhaps she’s a workaholic, too, like Marcus. Maybe that’s why Adam and I are friends.
Two stay-at-home parents, bonding over exhaustion and dirty diapers. Hot.
While the girls play, I stand in the kitchen awkwardly, as Adam returns with the tarragon and begins mincing it with a fancy-looking
chef knife.
“Voilà,” Adam says, setting a tossed salad and a platter of panini sandwiches on the table, before running back to the kitchen
for spoons and two bowls of... green mush.
“Broccoli and bananas—for the girls,” he says, smiling. “You know—from the baby food cookbook you told me about.”
Oh, that one.
Sabrina frowns, pressing her hand over her mouth. “Um, sorry,” I say. “She’s a little... anti-banana these days.”
“Oh,” Adam replies, a little wounded. “Didn’t she like them yesterday?”
Yesterday. So, this is a daily thing, he and I?
“Yeah,” I say, thinking fast. “You know toddlers. One day it’s bananas, the next... Frappuccinos.”
Adam looks a little confused, but I don’t elaborate, opting for a bite of my panini instead. I offer Sabrina a piece of fresh mozzarella that’s fallen onto my plate, which she immediately gobbles up. I don’t blame her. Given the choice between green mush and table scraps, I’d also choose the latter.
After lunch, he pours us each a glass of wine. “Glad you two enjoyed it,” he says, pleased.
“Well,” I say, pushing my empty plate aside. “Can I help with the dishes?”
“No, let’s leave them,” he replies, walking to the record player, where he queues up a vinyl—Al Green—then slides into the
sofa beside me.
“You didn’t touch your wine.” He points to my glass.
“Well,” I say nervously, “isn’t it a little too early to be drinking?”
He shrugs. “Never stopped you before.”
Before. Right. I glance at my wineglass, the two cherubic toddlers cooing at our feet. My heart races when I feel Adam’s hand on my arm before
he points to something cute our toddlers have just built with the blocks on the floor.
“Ummmm,” I say, inching away from him. “I... should probably get Sabrina home—for her nap.”
“But we’ve hardly had a chance to talk,” Adam says in protest, leaning closer. “Look how much fun the girls are having. Let’s
let them play a little longer.”
“Yeah, uh, no,” I say, standing up and catching my breath. “Sabrina... didn’t sleep well last night. I should probably
get her back... for naptime.”
Adam nods with a knowing smile. “Aw, she’s probably teething.”
“Yes, teething ,” I reply quickly, “like... all over the place.” I have no idea what I’m talking about, just grateful for a semi-plausible
out. I lift Sabrina into my arms, then make a beeline for the door. “Anyway, thanks for lunch!”
“Wait, Lena ,” Adam says, following me. “Did I do something, say something, wrong?” He scratches his head.
I close my eyes tightly, opening them again when Sabrina tugs at a strand of my hair and I wince inwardly. “No,” I begin, collecting myself. “But, Adam, whatever’s going on between us, well, it has to stop.”
He stares ahead, obviously confused.
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to the door, but he follows, undeterred, touching my shoulder when I step outside.
“Hold up, Lena, I—”
“I have to go,” I say, darting outside as a silver BMW pulls up along the curb. A tall man in a suit steps out, waving as
he walks toward us.
“Hi, honey,” he says, kissing Adam on the lips. “LAX was a nightmare. It took an hour to get my bag.” He peers into the doorway.
“Is Charlotte still awake?” His face lights up as she crawls into the doorway, beaming up at both men.
“I saw your text,” Adam says, scooping Charlotte into his arms, “so I kept her up a little longer.”
The other man nods gratefully, slipping out of his suit jacket and loosening his tie before turning to me. “Thanks for being
such a friend to Adam while the merger goes through. All this travel’s been brutal.” He shakes his head with an exhausted
sigh, before turning to Charlotte, eyes brightening. “I swear, this little angel of ours changes every time I come home. Look
at her—she’s grown an inch!”
“Maybe more like a millimeter,” Adam adds, smiling proudly.
“Well,” I say as Sabrina begins to fuss, “I guess it’s naptime for this one, too.” I turn to Adam, both relieved and fifteen
shades of embarrassed for my read on the situation. “Thanks for lunch, and for... all your help today.”
“Anytime,” he replies, blowing the two of us a kiss.
Out of breath, I unlock the front door and call Marcus.
“Lena?” he says, a little surprised. “Wait.” He pauses, his voice tinged with panic. “Is Sabrina okay?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly. “She’s fine.”
He sighs. “Thank God.”
“I’m sorry,” I begin tentatively. “I know you’re busy, but we... need to talk. Listen, can I ask you something?”
“Okay?” He sounds worried, as if we’ve had this conversation before and it didn’t go well. “What?”
I swallow hard. “What’s wrong with us ?”
“Seriously, Lena? You’re really bringing this up right now?”
“Well, yeah.”
He sighs.
I bite the edge of my lip so hard that I taste blood on my tongue. “Please,” I say, awaiting his reply—his side of the story.
Clearly, I’m not having an affair with Enrique Iglesias next door—thank God—so what’s going on? How could two people create
such a beautiful child and become estranged so quickly?
“Listen, how about we talk when I get home, okay?” he says.
“When?”
“Well, I have that dinner thing, remember?”
I exhale, disappointed.
He pauses. “Okay, if you really want me to come home early, I will.”
“Yes,” I say. “I really do.”
“All right, then, I’ll... be there.”
I smile to myself. “I mean, I don’t know what we’ll eat, but I’ll figure something out.”
He laughs. “And by that you mean takeout.”
“Exactly.”
I see his smile in my mind—Mr. Jelly, still looking for his Ms. Peanut Butter. “Okay, I’ll cut out of here in a few hours
and try to be home by six, okay?”
“Perfect.”
“Hi,” Marcus says from the doorway, his expression tentative, as if our earlier conversation may have been an enigma, and
me a mirage.
“Hi,” I say, looking up at him as Sabrina crawls over, tugging at her daddy’s pants before he lifts her into his arms.
I gather plates and utensils and start unloading our delivery Thai food, setting containers on the table as Marcus plunks
Sabrina into her high chair.
“Would you like to feed her tonight?” I ask.
“Really?” He shakes his head, clearly shocked. “You never want me to.”
“Well, I want you to now,” I say, secretly relieved to hand off the baton, especially when he locates a secret stash of homemade
baby food in the fridge, returning to the table with a spoon and bib. A bib would have come in handy today.
“You’re so good with her.” I watch as he feeds Sabrina, competently using the edge of the spoon to scrape the excess puree
from her chin after each bite.
“Thanks.” He looks away when our eyes meet. “I wish you’d let me help you more. Every time I try, you shut me out.”
I realize how wrong I was about Marcus this morning. I thought he was a cold workaholic, but maybe he’s just a loving father
and husband who’s been pushed away far too many times—by me.
We make small talk through dinner—a start—while Sabrina finishes an entire jar of baby food, along with scraps from our plates.
“All right, princess,” Marcus says, lifting her from her high chair as I clear our plates. “Time for your bath.” He turns
to me. “How about you rest, and let me take care of bedtime?”
I smile. “The sexiest words in the English language.”
He kisses Sabrina’s cheek, then carries her down the hall.
After I load the dishwasher, I peer into the bathroom, watching as Marcus sits beside the tub, lovingly lathering Sabrina’s hair and orchestrating an elaborate game comprised of a plastic boat and blue whale. She splashes in the bubbles as he does all the voices. “Don’t you get me, Mr. Whale,” he says as Sabrina squeals with delight. He’s an excellent father—and man. So, what compelled me to isolate the way I have? Why did I push him away?
After she’s in her pajamas, I follow him to the nursery, listening in the doorway as he reads her a bedtime story, watching
as he settles her into the crib with her teddy bear. When she pulls herself up to stand, I approach, kissing her soft cheek
and breathing in the sweet smell of baby shampoo, before Marcus lowers her into bed again, but not for long. She sits up,
coos, then says, as clear as day, “Dada.”
He looks at me, astonished. “Did you just hear that?”
I smile, nodding.
“That’s right, baby,” he says, beaming. “You just said, ‘Dada.’”
“Dada,” Sabrina says again, her little mouth forming the word proudly before she yawns, burrowing her head against her beloved
bear as we tiptoe out the door.
“Hey,” Marcus says in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine. “I’m going to change and grab the baby monitor. Want to meet
me outside?”
I nod, then pour us each a glass, and a few minutes later, he returns in a T-shirt and lounge shorts—monitor in hand. We sink
into the double chaise lounge by the pool, watching the city lights twinkling in the distance as nearby palms sway in the
warm evening breeze.
“Can we pick up where we left off on the phone earlier?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Let’s,” he replies with a long sigh.
“Okay, for starters,” I begin, cutting right to the chase, “this morning you seemed so... closed off, and I just wondered
if—”
“Closed off?” he scoffs, taking a sip of wine. “I could say the same thing about you.” He leans back against the chaise, staring
out into the night before turning back to me again. “Babe, you know you’ve been... off since Sabrina was born. At first I thought it was just postpartum stuff, but it’s been thirteen months . I just... can’t seem to break down your walls. I don’t know how anymore. You don’t want to talk, don’t want to do anything with me. You keep a barricade of pillows between us in the bedroom, for Christ’s sake. I’ve tried, you know I have, but, Lena”—he pauses, letting out a long sigh thick with pent-up frustration—“you have to try, too.”
I gulp, his words sinking in. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can only imagine how you must be feeling. I don’t know what to say, just
that I want things to be better—for us, for Sabrina. I... want to try, Marcus.”
“So do I,” he replies, his voice tender. “Just hearing you say that, Lena, it...” He pauses, his voice cracking under the
weight of emotion. “Well, it means the world to me. Baby, I’ve missed you so much.” He clears his throat, nestling closer.
“I’m sorry, too. I know I haven’t exactly been the perfect husband. I work too much, and I could be a better listener.” He
smiles. “Plus, you know, I watch too much ESPN on the weekends, and I never bring you breakfast in bed anymore.”
I laugh. “I hate breakfast in bed.”
Marcus threads his fingers in mine as I rest my head on his shoulder.
“Have you put any more thought into hiring a nanny?” he asks cautiously. “I know it’s been a sore subject, but I know your
work means so much to you, and Sabrina’s getting older. You could start slow, ease back in—just a few days a week.”
I smile, looking up at him. “You’re right,” I say. “It might be time.”
“I mean, it’s not about money, of course. I’ve got us covered. I just want you to be happy.” His eyes flash as he turns to
me again. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Guess who signed Lorenzo today?”
“Shut up, really?”
“Signed, sealed, delivered.”
“Congratulations!”
We sit together for a while, holding hands, draped in the warm night air. It’s perfect... until we hear a noise on the
walkie-talkie, er, monitor: first a pint-size cough, followed by fussing, then full-blown crying.
“You stay,” Marcus insists. “I’ll go check on her.”
He returns a few minutes later, with Sabrina in his arms. “She feels warm. Might be a fever.”
“Oh no,” I say, jumping to my feet and instinctively holding the back of my hand to her forehead, the way my mom used to do
when I was little. “She does feel warm.”
Marcus confirms her fever with a thermometer in the kitchen. “Ninety-nine-point-nine,” he says, worried. “I’ll give her some
Tylenol and keep her with me in the guest room tonight so you can rest.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. You’ve been on all day. It’s time for Daddy to take a shift.”
I search Marcus’s face. “Thanks for sticking with me—through it all.”
“I’ll always stick with you, babe.”
“Like peanut butter and jelly,” I add, touching the edge of his face.
He laughs, giving me a quick kiss before carrying Sabrina down the hallway.
I head to my office and sit in front of my computer, opening my email inbox to find the message from the attorney I read this
morning. I click on the reply button and begin typing:
Dear Beth,
This may come as a surprise, but I’ve changed my mind. Divorce is off the table. Marcus and I have decided to work things
out for our daughter. Needless to say, I won’t be needing your services anymore. I’m sure you can understand.
Thanks for everything,
Lena
After pressing send, I peer into the guest bedroom, where Sabrina is sleeping peacefully, cuddled up beside her daddy, who’s
also fast asleep. The sight nearly slays me.
I know life isn’t perfect, and especially not love. In fact, it’s messy and broody and fraught with feelings. But connection is the glue. Marcus and I lost it, somehow, but tonight we started finding our way back to it again tonight. I’m proud of that, even if it’ll all slip away, for me, at least, when the sun rises tomorrow morning.
After all these days jumping from one reality to the next, I’m starting to wonder if my longtime view of love might be fatally
flawed. While I’d hardly subscribe to Kevin’s conveyor-belt theory, the idea of finding “the one” feels more like a fantasy
as real as leprechauns and unicorns. Maybe love is less about fate and fairy dust and more about grit and intention? Maybe
it’s as simple as being the one for the one you love?
Tiptoeing across the room, I slide into the queen-size bed next to Sabrina, her arms extended over her head, which is exactly
how my mom said I slept as a baby. Marcus on one side, me on the other, we surround her like a cocoon. Family, connectedness,
love, showing up for each other even when it’s hard—now that I’ve had this experience, maybe this is how it ends? Yes, maybe
this wild ride will grind to a sudden halt in the morning, with Sabrina’s sweet face smiling up at me, Marcus yawning across
the bed, the two of us hashing out the morning’s child-care duties. But if not, and I wake up somewhere new, I know this — all of this —will remain in my heart forever.