13. Parker
PARKER
Coming home feels like walking straight into a tangle of soft noise and sharp guilt.
Lyra’s squeal is the first thing I hear. Then the thump-thump-thump of her socked feet slapping against the wood floor before she crashes into me full-speed and wraps both arms around my waist like she’s trying to fuse us back together. “Mommy! You’re home!”
I drop my duffel by the door, kneel, and hug her tightly, her little face smashed into my sweater, her curls catching under my chin.
“Hey, baby,” I breathe into her hair. “I missed you.”
She pulls back and squints at me, accusing. “Grandma made me eat vegetables. ”
“God forbid.”
“Green ones. With flecks.”
“Flecks?”
“I dunno. She said it was healthy.” She makes a face I suspect she’ll master by the time she’s a teenager. Part eye roll, part yuck mouth.
I laugh and ruffle her hair. “You survived.”
“Nuh-uh. Ask Levi.”
I look up in time to see my son emerge from behind the couch like a ninja. His pajamas are inside out. He’s holding a cheese stick in one hand and a paper towel cape is safety-pinned around his shoulders. He’s six going on vigilante.
“Tell her about the broccoli,” Lyra says.
Levi shrugs. “I like broccoli.”
“Traitor,” she hisses.
I try not to laugh and fail. God, I missed this chaos.
My mom appears in the kitchen doorway a moment later, a tea towel in one hand, the other planted on her hip like she’s auditioning for a detergent commercial. She looks tired but smug. “Welcome back,” she says. “They’re still alive. You’re welcome.”
“Barely,” Lyra mutters under her breath, slinking off toward the hallway with her tiny chin in the air. Levi sits cross-legged on the floor at my feet like we’re starting a story session.
I smile at my mom. “Thank you. Seriously.”
She waves it off but doesn’t hide the pleased expression. “They were good. Didn’t set anything on fire, though Levi tried to toast marshmallows over a candle.”
“Resourceful,” I say.
“He’s your child.”
I bend down, kiss the top of Levi’s head, and feel something tight inside me go free. The past three days weren’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it was the longest I’ve been away from them since they were born. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them until I saw their faces.
“You want tea?” my mom calls, already turning back toward the kitchen.
“Sure.”
While she boils water, the kids drag me into the living room to show me the latest version of their blanket fort, now upgraded with LED fairy lights, three stuffed animals in charge of “security,” and what appears to be a snack station tucked into a corner.
“It’s gonna fall down,” Levi confesses, “but it looks good.”
“I see that. A-plus branding.”
By the time we circle back to the kitchen, my mom has tea poured and waiting, chamomile for me and some kid-safe cinnamon thing for them. The smell is warm and sweet and makes my eyes sting a little.
“You look tired,” she says, placing a hand on my shoulder as I sit.
“I didn’t sleep much.”
She gives me a knowing look. “Must’ve been quite the strategy retreat. ”
I keep my expression neutral. “It was productive. We’ve got a solid plan for the gala.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The kids settle on the rug nearby, arguing softly over who gets to be the leader of the security bears. I sip my tea and avoid my mother’s gaze, even though I can feel it like a spotlight.
“How’s Jack?” she asks, too casually.
I don’t look up. “Sharp. Focused.”
“And Gavin?”
“Still allergic to mornings.”
“Mm. And Harrison?”
“Built like a tree and still thinks coffee is a personality.”
Her mouth twitches. “So nothing happened.”
I meet her eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
Her brow lifts. “You didn’t have to.”
I sigh and set down my mug. “It’s complicated.”
She leans against the counter. “That’s not a no.”
“Mom—”
“You’re sleeping with them.”
I press my lips together. Not confirming. Not denying.
She exhales through her nose, then glances at the kids before lowering her voice. “Parker. I love you. You know that. And I think you’ve been running on empty for so long that anything that feels like attention probably tastes like salvation.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything right now. Why are you harping on this?”
She folds her arms. “Phil’s always said those boys were trouble.”
“They’re his best friends.”
“Exactly.”
I rub my temples. “He doesn’t get to dictate my life.”
“No. But he’ll have opinions. And so will everyone else if this gets out.”
“I’m not trying to cause a scandal.”
“You think Vivian won’t notice? That the board won’t care?”
My pulse kicks. “They don’t know.”
“Yet.”
Silence stretches between us. Finally, she softens. “You’re a grown woman. You can do what you want. But just remember—every decision you make touches your kids. Don’t forget that.”
I nod, suddenly too tired to argue. “I am painfully aware of that.” And wondering whether her free nanny service is worth the cost of this conversation.
After a few more minutes of light chatter, I gather my bag, call the kids over, and start the short trek down the stairs to my garden-level apartment tucked beneath my mom’s place. The kids run ahead, arguing over who gets to pick the movie tonight.
And I follow, heart heavier than I want to admit.
Downstairs in our little apartment, things settle into a familiar rhythm—movies, microwave popcorn, warm fleece blankets piled too high.
The kids pick something animated and overly musical, and I let them.
I don’t have the energy to debate plot holes in a show about magical woodland creatures solving interpersonal drama through song.
If only humans had it so easy.
Lyra curls into my side, her head tucked beneath my arm. Levi stretches out at my feet, using my calf as a pillow.
I don’t even bother changing out of my jeans. I just sink into the couch and let myself be theirs again, fully. Not Parker the assistant, not Parker the mess tangled up in three men’s lives—just Mom. Their mom.
The knot in my chest loosens again, just a little.
Halfway through the movie, I have to pee. I wait as long as I can, not wanting to break the moment, but eventually I shift Lyra off me with an apologetic kiss to her forehead and shuffle down the hallway to the bathroom.
It’s the third time tonight.
I chalk it up to stress. Or maybe I’m just dehydrated and my body is staging a rebellion. I wash my hands, splash cool water on my face, and stare into the mirror for longer than I mean to.
I look…fine. A little pale. Eyes tired. But that’s normal. That’s working-mom normal. That’s nothing to worry about.
Right?
When I come back out, the kids are half-asleep. Lyra’s thumb is in her mouth. Levi’s eyes are drooping. I pause the movie and coax them both into pajamas, which goes about as smoothly as trying to dress cats in matching raincoats.
“Do I have to brush my teeth?” Lyra whines.
“Yes.”
“Even though I’m almost asleep?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Especially then.”
They do it, grumbling. I follow them to their room, tucking Levi in first. He grins as I adjust the shark plushie next to his pillow. “You peed again.”
I blink. “What?”
“You went to the bathroom again. That’s like…four times since we got home.”
“Are you keeping count?”
“That’s a lot.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not a big deal.” But then a memory clicks into place, and I freeze. The air in the room suddenly feels too still. My chest tightens.
The last time I had to pee this often was when I was pregnant with them.
My whole body goes numb, but I’m a mom, so I pretend to be fine. I move to tuck Lyra in, brushing her hair away from her forehead, but I’m not fully present anymore. My brain’s spinning. Clicking through memories like a Rolodex that won’t stop.
Now, I’m doing the math.
I kiss them both goodnight. I dim the light in the hallway. I pour myself a glass of water and stare at it like it might have answers. Then I go into the linen closet.
At the very back of the shelf—wedged between old baby towels and a dusty heating pad—I find the box. An old pregnancy test. One I kept for no good reason. Probably expired. Probably unreliable.
But I can’t help it.
I take it to the bathroom. I stare at it. I unwrap it with fingers that won’t stop shaking. And I pee. The line starts to appear before I’ve even set it on the counter.
It’s faint. But it’s there.
I sit on the edge of the tub, wrapped in a towel, staring at it like it’s a magic trick I can undo if I just blink hard enough. This can’t be happening. I’m on the pill now. I never miss a dose. I’m careful. I’m always careful.
But that line doesn’t lie.
I check the box. Expired six months ago. Okay. That’s something. That’s a reason to doubt. But still—something gnaws at me. I’m not tired because of the strategy retreat. I’m tired because my body is doing something it hasn’t done in six years.
And I’ve been peeing like a leaky faucet.
I put the test in the trash, bury it under tissues like it might contaminate the air if someone else sees it, and pace the bathroom for half an hour. I check the clock. It’s 11:42 p.m. Too late to do anything tonight.
I won’t sleep. I already know it. That’s fine. I’ll manage. But in the morning, I’ll buy a new test. A fresh one. One I can believe.
I was right. I don’t sleep. Instead, I lie in bed with the sheets twisted around my legs, one hand over my stomach, staring at the ceiling like answers might be carved into the plaster.
They’re not.
My phone says 1:23 a.m., then 3:08, then 4:57. I drift in and out, never deep enough to escape the hum in my chest, the constant math running in loops behind my eyes. How far along? When would it have happened? Which one of them?—?
I sit up before the alarm goes off, slipping out of bed as quietly as I can. The kids are still asleep, soft little lumps under fleece blankets, their faces relaxed in ways I’ve forgotten how to be.
I get dressed on autopilot. Jeans. A flowy top that doesn’t hug. A cardigan, even though it’s not cold. I pull my hair back, but it won’t cooperate. Everything about me feels like it’s slightly off—misaligned, one click to the left of normal.
By 6:15, I’ve dropped the kids off with my mom again. I mutter something about needing to be in early. She eyes me like she knows I’m lying but doesn’t push. “Text me if you’re late,” she says as I back out of the driveway.
If I’m late? Geez. I really wish she’d chosen better wording. “Thanks, Mom.”
I hit the first pharmacy I see. There’s a woman restocking shelves and a teenage cashier who barely glances at me as I grab a two-pack of pregnancy tests and a bottle of orange juice.
I pay in cash. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone’s watching me.
Still, my hands shake as I shove the receipt in my coat pocket.
I take the test in the bathroom at the VT building. Not the lobby restroom—too risky. I take the elevator to the fifth floor, where no one has moved into the renovated suite yet. The stalls are pristine. Unused.
The line shows up faster this time. Clear. Solid. Pink.
I stare at it until my throat closes up. No ambiguity. No faint maybe. Just truth. I’m pregnant.
I slide down onto the floor, back against the cold tile wall, the test still clenched in my hand like it might change if I just squeeze hard enough.
Pregnant.
This isn’t supposed to happen. I did everything right. I took the pills, set alarms. I was careful.
But here I am. Pregnant. Again. It’s a good thing I didn’t date much between the twins’ birth and now, because how fucking fertile am I?
My first thought is of Lyra and Levi. How much I love them. How much they needed from me back then—still do. And now? I don’t even know how to tell them. Or who to tell first. Or what the hell I’m going to do.
I’m still reeling when I finally stand. Wash my hands. Bury the test in the trash. I check my reflection and don’t recognize the pale woman staring back at me.
Then I head upstairs.
I walk into the executive floor ten minutes before nine, planning to fake it through the morning. Smile. Sip coffee. Pretend I’m not spiraling.
But then I open my email, and there’s one from the CHRO, Heather Cloud. She’s put a meeting on my calendar that starts in fifteen minutes. The email header reads “Conduct Review.”
And I thought my day couldn’t get worse…