Chapter 13 #2
Sophie and I sat in the small living room.
Leo played on the carpet with a box of crayons Sophie had dug up, quiet as a kitten.
These past few years—long story, but also short.
Sophie talked about her work, her fiancé, and wedding prep.
I talked about the flower shop, Leo starting school, and a few neighbors in the village who'd become friends.
Some details we covered carefully, some parts we skipped over.
She skipped, too. Neither of us pressed—some things, not that we couldn't say them, just that saying them would open up things neither of us was ready for.
Eventually the conversation thinned. We just sat there, listening to Leo hum some little tune while drawing on the carpet. Sophie turned to look at me for a while, then spoke.
"Olivia, are you still dancing ballet?"
I went silent. "No. Haven't in a long time."
Sophie gasped. I understood her look. It was heartbreak. "Why? I remember that was what you wanted most..."
Yes. My biggest dream once was to become a real ballerina, on stage, dancing for everyone to see. But...
"When was the last time you danced ballet?"
I paused. "Last time... Leo was two. The village church had a Christmas show, short on people, I helped out. Not really formal."
"Before that?"
I didn't answer. We both knew.
"Olivia," Sophie set down her teacup. "Before you left, you lived for me. After Leo was born, you lived for him. I know you don't feel wronged. I know you think these were all your choices." She paused. "But what about you? Where are you?"
The living room went quiet. Leo drew a circle on the carpet, held it up to show me. "Mommy, it's the sun!"
"Very good," I said. "Now draw a cloud."
He lowered his head contentedly and kept drawing.
I turned back to Sophie. "I don't have the energy to think about those things."
"That's because you've spent all your energy elsewhere." Her tone held no accusation, just a clear, considerate awareness I wanted to run from. "You're only twenty-seven, Olivia."
I didn't respond. Outside the window, sunlight made Brooklyn's afternoon very quiet. We let that sentence hang there. Neither of us touched it again.
A few days passed after that.
Sophie's wedding prep entered its most intense phase.
I helped her run errands twice for the event planner and spent an afternoon helping her try on dresses.
Ella took Leo out for the day. That evening, he came home and performed the magic trick they'd learned together.
Failed three times. Succeeded on the fourth.
I clapped. He strutted like a little peacock, insisting on performing the trick twice more before agreeing to take a bath.
Ella's call came that afternoon. I was on the balcony sorting through Leo's seasonal clothes.
"Girl! Guess what! I found you a great part-time gig," she cut straight to it, no preamble. "Upper East Side family, little girl needs to learn ballet, looking for a private tutor. Twice a week, pay is generous! Perfect for you!"
I paused, folding the little sweater in my hands and placing it in the box. "Ballet... I haven't seriously touched it in five years."
"How many years did you study?"
"Sixteen."
"Then you'd remember it in your sleep." Ella's tone, as always, brooked no argument. "There's no job better suited for you! Don't tell me you're not tempted!"
I said nothing.
She was right. I was tempted. Not just because of the generous pay, but because of my ballet dream—never extinguished.
This was the luxury I'd hidden in my heart, hadn't dared recall these past years.
Only in the dead of night would I secretly rise on tiptoe, gasping for air from under life's weight, as if I were still that girl who worried about nothing but dancing.
But could I still do it? What if I couldn't do it well?
Ella knew me. So she didn't wait for me to speak. Just kept going.
"Think about it. It's not just about money. When was the last time you did something for yourself?"
The refusal stuck in my throat.
Sophie's words surfaced again, landing quietly somewhere I hadn't guarded.
What about you?
When was the last time I truly rose on tiptoe?
Not helping out, not demonstrating casually for Leo—the focused kind, the kind that belonged only to me—I couldn't remember.
That point in time blurred in my memory like a faded photograph.
I knew it had existed, but couldn't find its edges anymore.
Started learning at four, kept going till twenty, made it to alternate, kept going till the calluses on my feet were thick enough I didn't need padding in any shoes—then stopped.
Stopped completely. Stopped so thoroughly that sometimes when I walked I forgot to keep my back straight.
Something deep in my chest that hadn't moved in a long time stirred quietly.
Things were different now from five years ago. Leo and I didn't have to worry about food anymore. I had time to do my own things.
And Leo was about to start preschool. Tuition, rent, groceries, transportation—every single one a hard expense.
So I should say yes.
I gave myself countless reasons. Ella didn't rush me. Just waited quietly.
"Okay," I finally said.
Ella's voice turned gleeful. "Olivia! I knew it! I'll send you the address right now!"
Before I could speak, she'd hung up. Almost immediately, a message came through—Ella forwarding the address and a few brief notes. I opened it and glanced. Deep Upper East Side, the area with those townhouses with yards. Not the kind of place ordinary wealth could get you into.
I set down the phone and went inside to find the pair of ballet slippers at the very bottom of my suitcase. Held them in my hands for a while—the leather a bit worn, but well-maintained. I'd carefully packed them away before leaving, thinking maybe someday I'd use them again.
I put them in my teaching bag, telling myself it was just an ordinary part-time job.
The next morning, I left Leo with Ella, changed into my practice clothes, tied up my hair, grabbed the teaching bag, and headed out.
The subway took me to the Upper East Side. Following GPS, I walked the whole way. Plane tree leaves swayed gently in the morning breeze. The whole street was nearly empty of pedestrians. Quiet like another world.
I stopped in front of that door. Checked the number on the gate. Double-checked the address.
Correct.
I pressed the doorbell.