Page 65 of Woman on the Verge

“Where did you get that?” I ask her, though I know exactly where she got it: the park. She has become quite the scavenger.

“Mommy’s bag,” she says, pointing to my purse sitting on the garage floor.

“Liv, tell the truth,” I say. “Did you find that at the park?”

“No,” she says, eyes big and blameless. This morning, I put what little hair she has into two fountains on top of her head. She is, indisputably, darling.

“She’s been picking up things at the park,” I say to Kyle. I do not mention the tampon applicator. I will never mention the tampon applicator.

“Well, good find,” he says to Liv, handing it back to her. She looks quite pleased with herself. They both love their father’s praise. It is doled out sparingly and, therefore, coveted.

“Can I have it?” Grace says, already taking the card from her sister.

Liv starts crying.

Right on cue, Kyle says, “Okay, I’m going to head back inside.”

It takes me ten minutes to get the girls calm again. I tell them nobody gets the hotel card until they can agree to take turns. They agree to take turns, then promptly lose interest in it and request that I draw hearts with them on the driveway. I comply. I press so hard with the red stick of chalk that it’s nothing but a nub by the time we’re done.

When the lasagna is done, I put pizzas in the oven for the girls and set a timer for ten minutes. The girls are running circles around the kitchen island. For some reason, they have taken off their clothes. I suppose this is fine because they do need a bath tonight. Kyle is sitting at the dinner table, looking at something on his phone, waiting to be served. Every now and then, he says, “Girls!” when they get too loud. It quiets them for twenty seconds, and then they return to their usual volume.

“Mom, come sit on the floor,” Grace says. She has mischief in her eyes.

“Girls, don’t bug your mom,” Kyle says, not looking up from his phone.

“Mom, please?” Grace says, her little hands clasped together, begging.

I go to the rug and sit on it. Sometimes complying with their wishes is easier than a back-and-forth discussion about why I am not complying with their wishes.You bring it on yourself.Kyle’s said that before. He rejects their demands frequently and easily. Sometimes I think I comply to compensate for his refusals.

“Okay, I’m sitting,” I say.

Grace turns around and starts walking backward into me, her bare butt headed straight for my face. She’s already giggling.

“Grace, what are you doing?” I ask.

Liv starts copying her, so there are now two bare butts coming for me. Liv’s is adorably dimpled.

When Grace’s heels touch my legs, she crouches so she’s almost sitting in my lap but not quite.

“Pretend you’re a toilet,” she says to me.

“Grace, come on,” I say, starting to press myself up.

She starts making farting noises and the girls erupt in hysterics.

This is probably something they saw on YouTube. So it’s probably my fault. I should limit their screen time or police what they watch more closely. I deserve to be a toilet.

When the timer on my phone dings, I go to turn it off and see a text message. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, most likely spam. It’s not enough that there are spam calls. Now there are spam texts, alerting me to ways I can save on loans that I don’t have, or encouraging me to share my home address so I can receive a special gift.

Hey. I’m sorry, I know you said not to text. I just can’t stop thinking about you. Don’t hate me.

It takes me a while to exit my “spam text” mindset and realize that this is Elijah. Unlike me, he has not deleted all our messages. I am still in his phone. For some reason, I didn’t consider that he would reach out to me.

“Mom, I’m huuungry,” Grace says, snapping me back to reality.

I put down the phone.

“I’m bringing your pizza now,” I say, taking the pizzas out of the oven.

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