“This is our life now, Mom,” I said gently. I almost added, Dad would want us to enjoy it, but I didn’t. I knew she didn’t believe that. And to be honest, I wasn’t sure I believed it either. So I said, “We have to learn to enjoy it,” instead.
“I am enjoying it,” she insisted. “I’m just hungry!” She smiled, and I knew it was a lie. Both the hunger and the smile. There were so many lies between us now, there was no point in calling her on it. Besides, I told just as many.
“Ten minutes,” I promised, then shut the door. I felt a ping of excitement that Mom and I were going out. Setting the table for two after a whole life of being a three felt sad and weird. But maybe we could find some new rituals now? Like getting our nails done together, or going to movies or concerts or even on trips. I liked baking bread and shopping at thrift stores with Mom back in the day, she always made it fun by playing kooky playlists in the car and singing along with the windows open. But we could do so much more now. And then maybe, once we learned to have fun again, all the lying would stop.
As I turned on the shower, I was smiling, because I thought that sushi was a sign that things were looking up. Thinking back, it’s kind of incredible how very wrong I was.
LIBBY
Three months ago
“Cool watch,” the Goth salesgirl said as I set my garbage bag full of clothes on the counter. The trendy Studio City thrift store was only a few towns over, but felt like another planet.
“Thanks,” I said curtly, meeting her heavily lined eyes, making sure to convey that—unlike the items in the trash bag—the watch wasn’t for sale. I had to hold on to one vestige of my former life, or risk losing it entirely.
She opened the bag and took out the first item—a pair of dark-wash, boot-cut 7 For All Mankind jeans that still fit but weren’t in style anymore. I tried to look indifferent as she inspected them. I felt a little rush as she put them in the “yes” pile. I can surprise the girls with sushi tonight! My daughters didn’t eat raw fish, but they loved the rolls—avocado, vegetable, sweet and creamy California—and we hadn’t had them for a while.
I tried not to think about all the other things we hadn’t had for a while, or how lean the coming months would be. My fortieth birthday was coming up. I was terrified to bring up the subject with Andy. Six months ago, I dared to fantasize about having a big blowout bash, but now even a small party was out of the question. We had near six-figure credit card debt. We could barely afford a picnic for two in the backyard. And I was selling my $200 designer jeans for twenty bucks at a thrift shop.
“Is this Hermès?” the Goth gal asked, and I nodded. The scarf was a gift from my mother, but I never liked it and was relieved to have an excuse to part with it.
Things had become strained between my mother and me, especially since I told her we couldn’t afford to visit this summer, and if she wanted to see her granddaughters, she’d have to fly us out. You have a degree, she’d said when I complained about being broke. Go out and get a job!
But it wasn’t that easy at my age, with one kid in preschool and the other in second grade. I didn’t want to hire someone to do what I enjoyed doing myself—hearing about their day on the ride home from school, taking them to the park, to swimming lessons or an art class. And without hiring a thirty-dollar-an-hour nanny （with a car and impeccable driving record）， I wasn’t really available to work. Was I supposed to tell my potential employer, I’d like to work for you, but I have to leave by two thirty, except on Tuesdays, when I have to be out by one o’clock. Also I volunteer in the classroom Friday mornings, so I can’t come in until after ten o’clock. Also I’m not willing to miss school plays, concerts, and won’t come in if my kids are sick, so you can depend on me but not really, because when you have kids, sick days happen. Sick days do happen. They happen a lot.
Tell Andy to help with the kids, my mother would say. And he would help when he could. But his schedule was volatile. Plus he was supposed to be writing, which is tough enough when you’re not chasing kids around.
Ruby Gloom fished a dress coat out of the bag and put it in the “no” pile without even looking at it.
“That’s Betsey Johnson,” I admonished her. That coat had cost $300, and I had only worn it once.
“Out of season,” she shot back. And that was it for Betsey.
I had thought about telling my husband I wanted to go back to work, but even if Andy were to agree to be Mr. Mom, I had another impediment to getting a job. I didn’t know anyone here. Referrals were everything in a psychology practice. Back in New York, I was part of a robust network. I had built a brand, established my specialty （family and systems development）， and, after three years of hosting free seminars, I was just starting to get paying customers. There were probably teaching jobs here that I was qualified for, but I would never get them. I could explain to someone who knew me personally why I took eight years off to birth and raise babies, but I couldn’t expect someone I cold called to make sense of it. After nearly a decade on the sidelines, professionally I was irrelevant now. I’d have to start over. At forty. The prospect was terrifying. Because it wasn’t a viable prospect at all.