Mary Ellen had seen the wisdom in this right away, had come to her senses without any fuss. Her parents had friends in biotech, so introductions were made and internships were lined up. She’d landed a job at Gallard right after graduation, and now here she was, thirty years later: vice president of marketing, in charge of the world’s leading analgesic, Numbitol, a product whose blue-and-yellow caplets brought comfort and relief to millions of Americans every single day.
She left the breakfast room and sat on a sofa in the lobby, marveling at the way life can turn on a moment, a conversation, a dinner, and how utterly unaware you can be while it’s happening. Had there been white tablecloths on the tables? Probably. Her father had massaged his earlobe while reading the menu, as he always did, and Mary Ellen had teased him about his suit—always so formal! She was pretty sure she remembered candlelight and wallpaper, but was she making that up to fill the gaps? It felt important to know.
She got up and asked at the front desk if L’Auberge was still around. It was; they would be happy to make a reservation for that evening. She hesitated a moment before agreeing, worried about the other memories, the more recent ones, which would probably intrude on her evening with the girls. But she was pretty good at keeping those thoughts at bay. Besides, tonight wasn’t about the past; it was about kicking off an exciting new phase in the girls’ lives. It was time to celebrate.
Where were they? She took out her phone and called the room; one of the girls, her voice fogged with sleep, answered after the twelfth or thirteenth ring.
“Are you up?”
“We are now.” It was Sydney.
“Get dressed and come to the lobby, all right? It’s getting late.”
“Why didn’t you wake us up?”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“No, I mean—” Sydney made an exasperated sound. “Never mind. Goodbye.”
It was easier for Matt. He and the girls had sports—the glue that bonded them into a tidy, inseparable package. Ironically, this was Mary Ellen’s fault. When the girls were small, back when they still adored her, Mary Ellen had seen athletic activities as a way of leveling the playing field for Matt, giving him an opportunity to connect with the two long-haired, princess-and-pony-obsessed mini Mary Ellens. She was the one who’d signed them up for peewee soccer and volunteered Matt as assistant coach.
But before long, the field had tilted heavily in the other direction, and by the time the girls were twelve, sports had become all consuming. On most weekdays Matt would feed them an early dinner, then take them to practice, and Mary Ellen would come home to a house piled high with the evidence of family life—bulging backpacks, dirty dishes, and great, tangled drifts of shoes—but no actual family.
And in truth, she didn’t always hate it, the opportunity to mix a martini in an empty house after a long day of meetings and conference calls. But it had taken its toll over the years. Travel meets, team dinners, scrimmages, summer camps… The distance between herself and her family had widened slowly over time, like the gap between the first two steps of their marble stoop—barely noticeable at first, then more concerning as it filled with ice in the winter and sprouted weeds in the summer, until one day, to Mary Ellen’s shock, she came home to find their first step tipped forward onto the sidewalk, a lawsuit waiting to happen.
But really, what was the point in dwelling on the past? She’d made sacrifices, yes, but somebody had to do it. Otherwise, how could this life ever have come to be? Who would have paid for Penn Charter and ski lessons and the trips to Mexico? Who would have bought their five-story row house in Center City Philadelphia and financed the new kitchen and bathrooms? Not Matt, God bless him; his freelance writing had never even pulled in enough to pay their Whole Foods bill. Instead, he provided man-hours: overseeing the renovations, planning the vacations, taking the girls shopping for book bags, Valentine’s Day cards, and cleats.
The arrangement was seldom spoken of, with both of them afraid to upset the delicate balance: Mary Ellen trying to protect Matt’s ego, Matt trying to keep anything from changing, which appeared to be his goal in life. And somehow, it worked. At least, it worked better than what Mary Ellen had seen in those families with two working parents: kids raised by nannies, dogs walked by dog walkers, husbands and wives conducting marriages over Skype from hotel rooms and airport lounges.
The elevator chimed and the girls finally emerged, dressed in their usual sheepskin boots and leggings, mouths slick with lip gloss, jaws working away at wads of gum. “There you are!” Mary Ellen exclaimed. “I thought I was going to have to send a search party.”
She hurried the girls through breakfast and into the rental car. Turning onto South Road, she felt her pulse quicken at the sight of the familiar brick buildings and stone walls, the gracious walkways busy with young people. “My freshman dorm was over there!” she exclaimed, pointing toward a tree-lined quad. “And the library… Oh wow, look at all these new buildings.” She was disoriented for a moment, until she passed the rec center and the Hanes building. “That’s where the art studios were,” she said. “Did I tell you I started out as an art major?”
“Yes,” the girls answered in unison.
Mary Ellen parked and gestured
