"You have become thinner."
My mother's voice pulls me from my thoughts as I set down the tray of juice and freshly baked cookies on the coffee table. The scent of warm chocolate chips mingles with the faint lavender of Mom's perfume.
Lily giggles as Grandma traces invisible shapes on her tiny palms, some silly game they've invented together. My daughter's laughter rings through the room like wind chimes, bright and effortless.
"I eat plenty, Mom," I say, sinking into the couch beside them. The cushions sigh under my weight, worn from years of use. "Even if I ate more, I doubt I'd gain weight anytime soon."
Thanks to someone, I think bitterly, images of Damien's endless demands flashing through my mind.
Besides, I'm not even sure I am thinner. The same pencil skirt I've worn to work for five years still fits perfectly, hugging my hips the way it always has. Some things, at least, remain constant.
Mom watches me with those knowing eyes—the same warm hazel as mine, just with more lines around them now. Her fingers, still adorned with the simple wedding band she's worn for thirty years, continue playing with Lily's smaller ones.
Lily suddenly squeals, bouncing up from the couch. "It's time for my show!" She scrambles to the television with the boundless energy only five-year-olds possess, her pink socks slipping slightly on the hardwood floor.
I watch her go, that automatic smile tugging at my lips—the one that appears whenever I look at my daughter. It's as natural as breathing.
"You should come home," Mom says quietly, startling me.
The suggestion hangs between us, weighted with everything unsaid. I sigh, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "You know how it is."
Mom's face tightens, the lines around her mouth deepening. She looks tired—more than usual. "Your father will forgive you," she insists. "When he meets Lily—"
"How can you be sure?" The words come out sharper than I intend. "How do you know he won't yell at her? At me? Again?"
The memory rises unbidden—my father's face, purple with rage, his voice shaking the walls as he called me every name in the book. Irresponsible. Disgrace. Failure.
Six years.
It's been six years since we last spoke.
Mom reaches for my hand, her skin soft but strong. "He looks at your photo when he thinks no one's watching."
My chest aches.
"He doesn't even know he's a grandfather," I whisper.
Mom's grip tightens. "He would love her."
Would he?
The night I told them I was pregnant plays on a loop in my mind—the shattered vase, the ultimatum, the way my mother had silently cried as my father threw my suitcase down the front steps.
Abort it or get out.
I couldn't do the first. So I did the second.
Mom had been my lifeline in the shadows—secretly paying for my first prenatal visit, smuggling my favorite childhood books to Aunt Linda's where I stayed, showing up at the hospital when Lily was born even though she had to lie to Dad about where she was going.
I owe her everything.
But some wounds don't heal just because time passes.
Lily's cartoon blares to life, the cheerful theme song slicing through the heavy silence. I seize the distraction.
"How's the garden?" I ask, forcing lightness into my voice.
Mom accepts the change with a small smile. "The roses are blooming early this year. That hybrid you always loved—the peach-colored one? It's taking over the trellis."
We talk about harmless things after that—the neighbor's new dog, Aunt Linda's recent trip, the bakery downtown that still makes those lemon tarts I adore.
Eventually, Mom pulls out the photo album from her bag—the one she's been meticulously curating since Lily's birth. We flip through the pages, laughing at the picture of Lily covered in spaghetti at her first birthday, tearing up at her first steps captured in blurry perfection.
"What's so funny?" Lily demands, suddenly appearing between us, her curiosity outweighing her cartoon.
Mom scoops her onto her lap. "We're looking at your baby photos, sweetheart. Look how tiny you were!"
Lily's eyes widen as she sees the picture of herself as a newborn, swaddled in the yellow blanket Mom knitted. "That's me?"
"Yep," I say, kissing her wild curls. "That's you, my miracle."
As Lily oohs and aahs over her baby pictures, tracing tiny fingers over images of her own chubby cheeks and toothless grins, my mother meets my gaze over her wild curls.
Maybe one day.
The thought slips in unbidden—a scene I've imagined countless times in the quiet hours of the night. My father standing in this very apartment, his stern features softening as he holds Lily for the first time. His calloused hands—the same ones that taught me to ride a bike—cradling her small frame with unexpected gentleness. His gruff voice saying, "She has your nose."
Every time the fantasy plays out, tears betray me, slipping down my cheeks before I can stop them.
The shrill ring of my phone shatters the moment. Lauren's name flashes across the screen—a lifeline to the present.
I swipe to answer. "Hey."
"Are you ready?" Lauren's voice crackles through the speaker, brimming with her usual impatient energy. "We're burning daylight here."
Mia, Lauren, and I had planned this outing weeks ago—an art exhibition Lauren's been dying to see for over a year. Some avant-garde sculptor whose name I can never pronounce. When she finally scored tickets through her family's connections (one of the many perks of being born into a dynasty of high-powered lawyers), she'd threatened bodily harm if we bailed.
I check the vintage clock above our TV—the one with the slightly lopsided numbers Lily glued back on after "fixing" it last month. "I'm ready. Just need ten minutes."
"You have five," Lauren declares. "I'm already circling your block."
The line goes dead before I can protest.
Mom arches an eyebrow as I pocket my phone. "Hot date?"
"With pretentious modern art and an overpriced wine bar," I say, kissing Lily's forehead. "You sure you're okay watching her?"
Mom waves me off, already pulling out the well-worn Uno cards Lily adores. "Go. Have fun. We'll be fine."
I duck into my bedroom—a space that's equal parts sanctuary and storage unit. The bed is neatly made beneath a mountain of laundry waiting to be folded, and Lily's latest crayon masterpieces adorn the walls in haphazard collage.
My wardrobe options are limited—most of my paycheck goes toward Lily's needs, not designer labels. But tucked in the back hangs my one "nice" outfit: a navy blue skater dress with tiny white polka dots that Mia swears makes me look like a young Audrey Hepburn. I bought it three years ago on clearance and have worn it to every semi-formal event since.
The fabric slips over my hips with familiar comfort as I change. A quick run of fingers through my auburn hair—loosening the waves from their workday bun—and a swipe of cherry-red lipstick stolen from Lauren's purse last month, and I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
Lily's gasp when I emerge is downright theatrical. "Mommy! You look bee-yoo-tiful!"
I laugh, bending to press a kiss to her sticky cheek (when did she get more chocolate?). "Be good for Grandma. No climbing the bookshelves. No redecorating the walls. And definitely no—"
"—expelimenting with your makeup," Lily finishes with an exaggerated eye roll. "I know."
The mischievous glint in her green eyes suggests she absolutely does not know, but the honk of a car horn outside cuts off any further warnings.
Mom shoos me toward the door. "Go. Before your chauffeur has an aneurysm."
The late afternoon sun hits my face as I exit our apartment building, the warmth a stark contrast to the over-air-conditioned unit. Down the block, Lauren's sleek black BMW idles illegally at the curb, hazard lights blinking.
Mia leans out the passenger window, her dark curls piled into a messy bun. "Took you long enough!"
Lauren, ever the picture of put-together elegance despite her hurry, emerges from the driver's side. Her blonde bob is perfectly sleek, her tailored trousers and silk blouse probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"You're wearing that?" she asks, eyeing my dress with a critical once-over.
I bristle. "What's wrong with my outfit?"
"Absolutely nothing," Mia cuts in, shooting Lauren a glare. "She looks amazing. Unlike some people who change outfits six times before leaving the house."
Lauren ignores Mia's jab, already rounding the car with the impatient energy of someone who considers punctuality a moral virtue. "Get in," she orders, tapping her designer watch. "If we're late, they won't let us in for the second viewing, and I did not bribe that gallery attendant for nothing."
I roll my eyes but comply, sliding into the backseat of her obnoxiously expensive BMW. The leather seats are buttery soft against my thighs, a stark contrast to the scratchy upholstery of my secondhand couch. Just as I'm about to pull the door shut, my phone buzzes in my clutch—an insistent vibration that rattles against my palm like a warning.
I glance at the screen.
Unknown Number.
The message is only two words, but they freeze the blood in my veins:
Hi, Jen.
Only people who are close to me calls me Jen.
Mia twists in the passenger seat, her dark curls bouncing. "Everything okay?"
I snap the phone facedown on my lap. "Yeah. It's nothing. All cool."
The lie tastes bitter, but Lauren's already peeling away from the curb with the aggressive confidence of a New Yorker who views traffic laws as mild suggestions.
My mind drifts back to that unknown text. Whoever that person is, they know me very well.