I turn on a well-worn heel—buying new shoes for anyone except my daughter has not been on the docket these past couple of years—and greet the woman who is worming her way into my daughter’s heart. “Stephanie! How are you?”
Even in workout clothes, she still manages to look like she walked right out of a Victoria’s Secret photo shoot. Her blond hair doesn’t have a strand out of place, and there isn’t even an ounce of fat between the waistband of her spandex leggings and her sports bra. Something I haven’t been able to pull off since getting pregnant.
“I’m great.” Her voice is soft and melodic, and I already know from Adelaide that she tells the best bedtime stories. “Just excited to spend some time with this girl tonight.” She tickles Adelaide’s side, and Adelaide throws her head back and giggles uncontrollably.
Stephanie focuses her eyes on my daughter, and her bright smile grows so big that she nearly blinds me with her perfect teeth. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Everything about her is perfect. She’s everything I’ll never be and she’s freaking perfect. It’s no wonder she’s living the life I wanted so badly to create.
It’s such a weird feeling, being so thankful you could cry and so freaking jealous that it turns the world green and makes you sick to the stomach at the very same time.
The tears that always fall after I drop Adelaide off start to build about five minutes too early, and I can feel the facade I work so hard to keep up around them start to crumble. “Why don’t you take her inside while I grab the rest of her stuff.” I wave them away, climbing over Adelaide’s car seat to look for her sparkly shoe, which should not be this difficult to find.
“Sounds good,” Stephanie calls before I hear her talk to Adelaide again. “I can’t wait to show you the stuff I got you! We’re gonna have a girls’ weekend. I hope you like nail polish and popcorn.”
“I love nail polish and popcorn!” Adelaide’s voice has risen about ten decibels, and even without looking, I know her brown eyes are sparkling and those sweet little creases she gets on the top of her nose when she smiles with her entire face are there.
You’re still her mom. Being a constant in her life is what she will always remember.
Being a millennial might not be great for most things. You know, like home ownership and student loan debt. But if there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s technology and prioritizing mental health, and thanks to some genius in Silicon Valley, teletherapy is totally a thing.
Also, mom podcasts and blogs. I’m not sure I would’ve survived these last couple of years without mom influencers. Thank the heavens for Nicola Roberts, my best mom friend . . . who has no idea I even exist.
It takes me a surprisingly long time to find her shoe, which is stuck between the passenger seat and the front door. I shove it in her backpack, which is stuffed with more than she needs, but still less than she wanted, and try to prepare myself for my least favorite part of all of this. And considering I really dislike all of it, that’s saying a lot.
Each step up the pathway is a punch to the gut. I loved this tiny bungalow. We moved in at the beginning of my second trimester, not long before my pregnancy went to hell. I spent an entire weekend planting the rosebushes that are now mocking me as I walk between them—a cruel reminder that all the love I put into them will keep blossoming even if I never step foot here again. This was where, when we brought Adelaide home, Jude had decorated the entire yard with pink balloons and streamers. I thought it was where I’d watch Adelaide grow up, not where I’d watch her walk away.
Before I can even make it to the porch, which is still decorated with the flowerpots Adelaide and I painted when she was two, the front door opens and Ben steps out.
Ben Keane. The love of my life who gave me the entire world and then pulled it away just as fast.
“Hey.” I hope my face looks normal. I never know what I look like when I see him. Whether my hate or love for him is showing this time. I’m sure one day it won’t be a struggle to see him, but today is not that day.
“Hey.” His bright blue eyes crinkle at the corners as Adelaide’s smile appears on his infuriatingly handsome face. “Thanks for driving her over, I could’ve picked her up.”
“It’s not a problem.” I wave him off, not wanting to admit how much I enjoy the traffic if it means getting more time with my girl. “I had some errands to run anyway.”
“Good, cool . . . thanks. We’re excited to have her.”
“Like I said, not a problem.” I’ve come to find this is the hardest part of Ben coming back into our lives. Every time he thanks me for something that should’ve been happening for Adelaide’s entire life, I practically have to chomp off my tongue in order not to say the snotty remark bubbling at the back of my throat.
“Oh, and since I have you here, I wanted to ask about kindergarten for Junie.”
“Okay.” I draw out the word for a beat. “What about it?”
“There’s a school close by, and I’ve heard from the neighbors that it’s really good. I was thinking maybe we could enroll her there. I know we both work full-time, but Steph pretty much makes her own schedule and can watch her after school for us.”
There’s a lot to unpack there, but a few things come to mind right away:
1) Hell freaking no.
2) He’s out of his goddamn mind.
3) If only kindergarten enrollment in Los Angeles was so easy.
“I know this is a great school district, it’s the reason I wanted to buy in this neighborhood in the first place.” Because dropping off my daughter here isn’t hard enough, let’s rub some more salt in the wound! “But no, she’s already enrolled in kindergarten.”
He pulls his shoulders back and narrows his eyebrows. The way he does anytime someone dares to tell the great Ben Keane no.
“No? Why not?”
“Because that’s not how things work, Ben. I toured kindergartens and applied for a year before Adelaide got in. There were teacher recommendations, testing, and observations. It was a huge process.” It was like college, but with finger painting. The entire process was freaking absurd and I get a headache thinking about it. “And you already knew about this. Don’t you remember the papers you signed?”
“Vaguely.” He doesn’t remember, I can tell by the way he looks down at his feet when he answers. “I guess I just assumed this is a decision we would discuss together.”
I want to scream.
I want to punch him in the throat and scream.
Instead, I take a deep breath.
“I would’ve liked that too. But if you remember, you weren’t very involved for a few years there.” I keep my voice measured and calm, even though it’s killing me slowly. “And even if you wanted to talk about things now, it’s July. Applications for schools were due in the fall and admissions were given back in March. So this conversation is moot.”