Baby proof

despite Maura's prodding to wait until the guests have departed. Luckily Zoe is at the age where it is not possible to rip through the wrapping fast enough, so in no time at all she is surrounded by a pile of pink and lavender plastic and stuffed toys. American Girl dolls, bead-making kits, board games, Polly Pockets and Barbies galore. She saves my present for last. It is a monogrammed, wooden jewelry box with a twirling ballerina inside. I am pretty proud of the fact that I made the selection with no help from Maura, whom I usually consult at the last minute.

Zoe opens my card first, after being prompted by Maura to do so. We all listen to her read it aloud, sounding out the harder words. She gets to the bottom and reads, 'Love, Aunt Claudia.' Then she looks up at me and says, 'Why isn't Uncle Ben's name on the card?'

Shit, I think.

'Yes, Claudia? Why?' my mother says.

I say something about it being an oversight.

Zoe gives me a puzzled look. Clearly she does not know the word oversight.

'I forgot to write his name,' I say weakly.

'Are you getting a dee-vorce?' Zoe asks in an anxious tone that suggests her own parents' marriage is on the rocks. 'Nanny V told Aunt Daphne that you're getting a dee-vorce.'

My mother, aka Nanny V, finally has the opportunity she has been craving. She glances around the room, making maximum eye contact with her best 'who me?' expression. Then she turns to me and trills in her eloquent soap opera voice, 'Well? Is it true?'

All eyes are on me. Even Maura's friends who have never met me are staring at me waiting for my answer. It occurs to me to lie one final time, but I just don't have it in me. So I say to Zoe, 'Sometimes things don't work out.'

Maura looks as if she might faint, as much from the news as the black mark my announcement is making on her party. My dad practically runs toward me and gives me a big hug, whispering that everything will be okay. My mother starts bawling.

'I knew it. I knew it,' she sobs as Dwight, who arrived only minutes before, fans her face with a pink ZOE IS SIX! cocktail napkin.

I break away from my dad, and say, 'I'm fine.'

One of Maura's friends, a woman with jet-black hair and the largest diamond earrings I've ever seen off a red carpet, gives my mother a Kleenex. She then doles one out to Daphne, who is tearing up in a Pavlovian response to my mother's sobs.

A hush falls over the room and Zoe, who looks stricken but stoic, poses another careful question, 'Is it because you don't want children, or because you don't love him?'

This question is similar to 'Are you still beating your wife?' and I can't help marveling at a six-year-old's astute ability to slice through the issues, boil my divorce down to its naked essence.

Of course the answer is simple: I don't want children so therefore Ben doesn't want me. I almost say it, exactly like that, but instead I smile and give one of those awful adult explanations, the sort of response that puts me squarely in the evasive, bad-mother camp. Or at least the bad-aunt camp.

'It just wasn't meant to be, Zoe,' I tell my niece.

Zoe gives me a look that makes it clear that she has no idea what this means. Hell, I don't even know what it means. But before she can formulate her next question, I smile, stand, and stride to the dining room where I help myself to another piece of cake. This time I get a D-for divorce-all piled high with pink and green icing.

eight

The follow-up phone calls come fast and furious, and it is clear, by the pattern and intervals between messages, that the callers are in cahoots: Maura, Daphne, Dad, Maura, Daphne, Dad. My mother's messages are more random-just as she always is.

I take my time before I phone anyone back, which is a good decision because I can tell they've moved beyond their hysteria when we finally talk. I can also tell that they've come up with a unified party line-we just want what's best for you, and although we dearly love Ben, we are on your side. I credit Maura's fancy Upper East Side therapist, Cheryl Fishstein, for this reaction. Being rational and calm is never the first instinct in my family.

The only comment that throws me for a loop is Daphne's request to contact Ben.

'And say what?' I say.

'And say that I'm sorry you guys couldn't work things out… That I'll miss him… Maybe ask him how he's doing… But I'll only call if it's okay with you.'

I tell her that she can do whatever she wants, but I don't want to hear the details of their conversation-which will likely revolve around how much both of them want babies. (In point of fact, Daphne actually started this conversation with the report that she got her period; I think I know Daphne's menstrual cycle better than I know my own.)

'Has his family contacted you?' she asks.

I tell her no. It occurs to me that this should hurt my feelings, but for some reason it doesn't. I think Ben's family respected me and liked me, but I never sensed real warmth between us. So their silence now is not a big surprise. And I think to truly get your feelings hurt, something has to come as a surprise. (Maybe this is why I'm immune to my own mother's actions.) I'm sure Ben's mother will send me a note at some point on her formal, monogrammed stationery. She's probably just reviewing her Anne Landers clippings for what exactly one should say to one's ex-daughter-in-law. Unless she's too busy getting started on her quilt for Ben's firstborn, that is.

The following Saturday afternoon I am traipsing across the Brooklyn Bridge with Michael in a throng of walkers, runners, and bikers, as he swears to me how therapeutic the view will be at the halfway point. We are here because yesterday at work I confessed that I was a little bit depressed. He stood across from my desk and said, 'Of course you are. It would be weird if you weren't depressed.'

Then he said he had an idea of something that might cheer me up, did I have plans for the next afternoon? I told him no, when you shift from married to divorced as abruptly as I have, it tends to do a number on your weekends. I told him that Jess and I had planned on making it out to the Hamptons, but she had a last-minute 'business trip' (which is really a boondoggle to see Trey). Michael told me to be at his place in Alphabet City at ten. I sensed that it was a pity-invite but decided not to let pride get in the way of a good time. And Michael is always a good time.

So this morning, we met near his apartment, and now here we are on the Brooklyn Bridge pedestrian walkway. It is a hot June day-hotter than June usually gets in New York-and it's made even warmer by the sunlight reflecting off all the steel. Our pace is sluggish, and people pass us on both sides.

I keep thinking of how this is my first summer without Ben in a very long time. My first change of season without him. I haven't spoken to him at all in almost two months. Our divorce is final-the papers came in the mail a few days earlier, arriving without ceremony or fanfare. I filed them along with my birth certificate and social security card in a green hanging file marked important documents. And that was that.

I am thinking of the word ex-husband now-how both sad and oddly sophisticated it sounds-while Michael is saying something about the bridge's foundation being made of wood.

'You'd think the wood would rot and decay, wouldn't you?' Michael says.

'Yeah,' I say. 'But Venice is built on wood and it's a hell of a lot older than this.'

'Good point,' he says. 'Maybe the bacteria that rots wood needs air to live?'

'I dunno,' I say.

Ex-husband. Ex-husband. Ex-husband.

'So you've crossed this bridge before?' I ask Michael.

'Yeah. A few times… including a few days after September eleventh. It really gives you a sense of perspective. You'll see what I mean,' he says. 'It's the urban equivalent of going on a hike. Very peaceful.'

I look ahead at the stone Gothic towers and backdrop of cobalt-blue sky, crisscrossed by a lacework of