Chapter 11
Lauren Phillips stood at the kitchen island in her Sarasota home, staring at the calendar on the wall.
Thursday. Her mother was in Massachusetts by now, probably at Beth's farm, probably already fussing over her youngest daughter and counting down the hours until the twins arrived.
Chris and Becca were still on Captiva, but they would fly up soon too, once the babies came.
Michael and his family were a short drive from Boxford, ready to appear at a moment's notice.
Everyone was converging on Massachusetts. Everyone except her.
She picked up her coffee mug, found it empty, and set it down again.
Through the window, she could see the backyard, where Daniel's swing set sat unused in the morning light.
Her youngest was napping, worn out from a morning of toddler activities.
Olivia was at school, and Lily was at a friend's house, leaving the house unusually quiet.
Quiet enough to think. Quiet enough to feel the weight of the decision she had been avoiding.
Her grandmother's voice echoed in her memory. “This might be the last time. The last big family gathering at the Andover house. The last chance to walk through those rooms and remember what it was like when you were kids.”
Lauren had told her and Jeff she’d think about it. But thinking had become stalling, and stalling had become avoidance, and now here she was, standing in her kitchen while her family gathered a thousand miles away.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from her sister Sarah.
Mom just sent a picture. Beth looks ready to pop. Also exhausted. Also happy. You should see it.
A moment later, the picture arrived. Beth on the farmhouse sofa, her belly impossibly large, their mother beside her with an arm around her shoulders. Both of them smiled for the camera, though Beth's face had the strained quality of someone who hadn't slept well in weeks.
Lauren studied the image for a long moment. Her mother looked good. Relaxed. Present. The worry lines that had creased her face during the cancer treatment had softened, replaced by something that looked like peace.
Two years cancer-free. Lauren still felt a jolt of gratitude every time she thought about it.
There had been months when she had feared the worst, when every phone call from Florida had made her heart race with dread.
The surgery, the treatment, the endless waiting for test results.
She had flown down as often as she could, had sat with her mother through chemotherapy sessions, had watched her fight with a determination that was both inspiring and terrifying.
And she had won. Maggie Wheeler Moretti had won.
But the experience had changed something in Lauren.
Had made her acutely aware of time, of how quickly it passed, of how easily the people you loved could slip away.
She had started saying yes more often. Yes to family dinners, yes to spontaneous visits, yes to the messy, inconvenient, wonderful chaos of staying connected.
So why was she saying no to this?
She knew the answer, even if she didn't want to admit it.
The logistics were daunting. Three children, each with their own schedules and needs.
Olivia's tennis practice, Lily's piano recital, Daniel's nap routine.
Jeff was capable, but a week of solo parenting would exhaust him.
And the drive itself, three days in an RV with her grandmother and her sister, sounded equal parts wonderful and overwhelming.
But underneath all the practical concerns was something else. Something harder to name.
Fear, maybe. Fear of going back to that house, of walking through rooms that held so many complicated memories. Fear of feeling things she’d spent years learning to set aside.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Jeff.
Should be back home for lunch. Want me to pick up sandwiches?
She typed back quickly. Yes please. Turkey for me.
Got it. See you in 20.
Lauren set the phone down and walked to the window.
The backyard looked different in this light, the morning shadows giving way to the flat brightness of midday.
She had chosen this house because of the yard, because she had imagined her children playing here, building forts and catching fireflies and growing up in a space that felt safe and contained.
She hadn’t imagined feeling stuck here. But that was what she felt sometimes. Stuck in the routines, stuck in the schedules, stuck in the endless cycle of meals and laundry and bedtimes that made up the architecture of motherhood.
It was a good life. She knew that. Jeff was a wonderful partner, her children were healthy and happy, and she had nothing to complain about.
But every now and then, she caught herself wondering what had happened to the person she used to be.
The woman who had backpacked through Europe after college, who had taken risks, who had believed that adventure was not just possible but necessary.
That woman felt very far away,, and quite possibly gone forever.
The front door opened, and Jeff appeared with a paper bag from the deli down the street. He smiled when he saw her.
“Hey. You look like you're thinking deep thoughts.”
“I'm always thinking deep thoughts. It's my natural state.”
“Uh huh.” He set the bag on the counter and crossed to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Want to tell me what's going on?”
Lauren leaned into him, letting herself be held. Jeff had always been good at this, at creating space for her to feel whatever she was feeling without judgment or pressure. It was one of the things she loved most about him.
“My grandmother called again this morning,” she said. “Left a voicemail. She wanted to know if I'd made a decision about the RV trip.”
“And have you?”
“I've made several decisions. Then I've unmade them. Then I've made different decisions.” She pulled back to look at his face. “I keep going back and forth. Part of me really wants to go. Part of me thinks it's crazy.”
“What does the part that wants to go say?”
Lauren considered this. “That I'll regret it if I don't. That this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, saying goodbye to that house, being there when my sister has her babies. That my grandmother is eighty and won't be around forever, and maybe I should grab every chance I get to spend time with her.”
“Those sound like good reasons.”
“They are good reasons. But then the other part of my brain kicks in. The part that says the kids need me, you need me, and the recital is Saturday, and who's going to make sure Olivia gets to tennis practice on time.”
Jeff was quiet for a moment. Then he took her hands in his.
“Lauren. I need you to hear something, and I need you to actually believe it.”
“Okay.”
“I can handle this. The kids, the schedules, all of it.
I'm not saying it will be easy, but I'm perfectly capable of being a parent on my own for a week.” He squeezed her hands.
“You do it all the time when I travel for work. You never make me feel guilty about it. So why are you making yourself feel guilty about this?”
“Because it's different.”
“How is it different?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
How was it different? She was the mother, Jeff was the father, and in theory they were equal partners in this parenting enterprise.
But somewhere along the way, she had absorbed the idea that her presence was more essential, that the household would collapse without her constant supervision, even though Jeff had been a stay-at-home parenting father before Daniel was born.
Her worry was unfounded. Jeff was a competent adult. He knew where the school was and what time practice started and how Daniel liked his sandwiches cut. He had been parenting these children just as long as she had.
“I don't know,” she admitted. “I think I've convinced myself that I'm indispensable.”
“You are indispensable. To me, to the kids, to everyone who loves you.” Jeff smiled. “But that doesn't mean you can't leave for a week. Indispensable people are allowed to take trips.”
“That should be on a bumper sticker.”
“I'll get it printed.” He released her hands and walked to the counter, unpacking the sandwiches from the bag.
“Look, I'm not going to tell you what to do.
This is your decision. But I want you to know that if you decide to go, I've got things covered here.
Your mom will be there, and your sisters, and your grandmother.
It sounds like something you don't want to miss.”
Lauren watched him arrange the sandwiches on plates, his movements easy and familiar.
Twelve years of marriage, three children, countless ordinary moments like this one.
She had built a life with this man, a good life, and part of what made it good was his constant support of who she was and what she needed.
“What about Lily's recital?” she asked.
“I'll take her. I'll sit in the front row and clap louder than anyone.”
“She'll be nervous.”
“She's always nervous. And she always does great anyway.” Jeff slid a plate across the counter to her. “I'll record the whole thing. You can watch it on the drive home.”
Lauren picked up her sandwich but didn't eat it.
She was thinking about the house in Andover, about the rooms she hadn't explored in years.
The kitchen where her mother had cooked a thousand meals.
The living room where they had opened presents on Christmas morning.
Her old bedroom, where she had lain awake at night listening to her parents argue, pretending she couldn't hear. She’d been at the house many times since her mother left for Florida.
With her brother Chris and his wife Becca living there, the house remained as it had for most of her life.
There were good memories in that house. And hard memories. And memories that were both at once.
“I'm scared,” she said quietly.
Jeff looked up from his sandwich. “Of what?”
“Of going back. Of feeling all the things I felt when I lived there.” She set the sandwich down.
“My parents' marriage falling apart, watching my mom try to hold everything together, all the lies my father told.
I thought I'd dealt with all of that. But the idea of walking through that house again, saying goodbye to it forever...” She shook her head.
“I don't know. It brings everything back.”
Jeff was quiet for a moment. Then he walked around the counter and pulled her into his arms again.
“Maybe that's exactly why you need to go,” he said softly. “Not to avoid those feelings, but to face them. To walk through those rooms one more time and really let go.”
“When did you become a therapist?”
“I've been watching a lot of daytime TV.”
She laughed despite herself, a watery sound that was half sob. “I love you.”
“I love you too. And I think you should call your grandmother.”
Lauren pulled back and looked at him. His eyes were steady, certain. This was the man who had held her through postpartum depression, through career crises, through every storm their marriage had weathered. If he said he could handle a week alone with the kids, she believed him.
“Okay,” she said. “I'll call her.”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”
She picked up her phone and found her grandmother's number. Her heart was pounding as she pressed the call button, which was ridiculous. She was forty-three years old, a mother of three, a grown woman making a simple phone call. There was no reason to be nervous.
Grandma Sarah answered on the second ring. “Lauren. Finally. I was starting to think you'd forgotten how phones work.”
“Hi, Grandma. Sorry it took me so long to call back.”
“Don't apologize. Just tell me you're coming.”
Lauren took a deep breath. “I'm coming.”
There was a pause. Then her grandmother's voice, softer than before. “You mean it?”
“I mean it. Jeff will stay with the kids. We'll make it work.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She could hear the smile in her grandmother's voice. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”
“Don't get too excited. I'm probably going to complain the whole drive.”
“I wouldn't expect anything less.” Grandma Sarah laughed. “I'll call Sarah and let her know. We'll pick you up Sunday morning. Be ready by six.”
“Six in the morning?”
“Early start. Long drive. No complaints.”
Lauren smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”
They talked for a few more minutes, working out the details. What to pack, where they would stop, how long they expected the drive to take. By the time they hung up, Lauren felt lighter than she had in days. The decision was made. The path was set.
Jeff watched her with a smile. “Feel better?”
“I feel terrified. But also excited. Is that possible?”
“Absolutely. That's how all the best adventures start.”
Lauren wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you. For pushing me. For pushing me to do this.”
“You need to be with your family as often as you can.” He kissed her forehead. “You just forget sometimes.”
Upstairs, Daniel started to cry, the sound of a toddler waking from a nap and demanding attention. Lauren sighed and stepped back.
“Duty calls.”
“Go. I'll clean up lunch.” Jeff gathered the plates and carried them to the sink. “And Lauren? Start packing tonight. If I know your grandmother, she'll be here at five-fifty-nine on Sunday honking the horn.”
Lauren laughed and headed for the stairs. He was right, of course. Grandma Sarah waited for no one.
As she climbed toward Daniel's room, she thought about the week ahead. The RV, the road, the long hours of conversation with her grandmother and sister. The farm in Massachusetts, where Beth was waiting to become a mother. The house in Andover, where she’d grown up, where she had learned what family meant and how easily it could fracture.
She was going back, and maybe this time she would finally be able to truly appreciate the past while letting some of it go.