Meredith

MEREDITH

11 YEARS BEFORE

March

I’ve just stepped outside. The day is expected to be unseasonably warm, nearing sixty degrees. The morning starts off cold. It’s only March. There are robins in the trees, making their way back from their winter homes.

The kids and I are running late. We’re rushing. I glance at the time on my phone. It’s eight-thirty. I have to get the kids where they need to be, and make it to my yoga class on the other side of town by nine o’clock. I’ll never make it.

Cassandra is outside with Piper and Arlo. I see them, heading off to school. The school is a couple blocks away, the distance short enough that the school doesn’t provide a bus. We have to walk. Either that or I have to drive Delilah to school. I never like to drive because the drop-off line is a nightmare. Some days I drive just close enough and then let Delilah off, letting her walk the rest of the way alone. I never feel good about it. She’s only six years old. But there are other mothers and other children there, and also a crossing guard. Nothing bad will happen to her with so many people around. Delilah is street smart; she knows the way to go. She knows better than to talk to strangers or to be lured in by things like candy or kittens.

But today I won’t have to do that. I glance up at Cassandra, Piper and Arlo across the street, heading out of their own home. They look like something out of a magazine. They’re completely put together and holding hands as they trot down their stone walkway and to the sidewalk. They’re a picture-perfect family. Arlo is a toddler, yet he’ll walk the distance without complaint. No one makes a fuss of holding hands.

I look to my own children. Today Delilah wears a dress. I combed her hair and found the elusive part, using a water bottle to tame the flyaway hairs. I managed a shower, and Leo got dressed all by himself, with his pants on the right way for a change. We don’t look half-bad ourselves, considering. On the outside, we’re put together, too.

But inside I’m all wrought up, my panic and agitation tucked neatly behind a smile. I’m getting by somehow on an hour of sleep.

“Hey, Cassandra,” I call out, waving across the street. We speed walk to her and the kids. “Hi, Piper. Hi, Arlo,” I say too eagerly. Delilah beams at her friend. She offers a shy wave, one that’s only waist-high. She’s shy because of Cassandra and me. If there were no adults here, Delilah would be uninhibited. She’s the extrovert in our family. I don’t know where she gets it. It must be from Josh, not me.

“I’m so glad I saw you,” I say. “Perfect timing. Do you mind if Delilah tags along with you to school? We’re running late,” I say, knowing that Cassandra never has any issue with walking Delilah to school.

“Please,” Piper pleads.

Cassandra says, “Yes, sure, of course,” which I knew she would. It wasn’t like Cassandra was going to say no. They’re headed in the same direction that we need to go and, really, one more child isn’t a burden.

Delilah tries to run off without saying goodbye. “Come back here, missy,” I tease.

She giggles. She rushes back, wrapping her arms around my legs, and I hug back, inhaling the smell of her, a combination of syrup and shampoo. I remind her to be good, to do as Miss Cassandra says. “Okay, Mommy,” she says.

I watch them walk away, missing Delilah before she’s gone. I remember her first day of day care, that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at leaving my child with a person I didn’t know well. It’s lessened over the years, but has never gone completely away. It was hard for me to go back to work after the kids were born, even though it was something I needed to do for myself.

Delilah has broken up the formation. Now Delilah and Piper skip ahead, laughing, while Cassandra and Arlo lag behind, still holding hands.

I feel somewhat guilty for unloading Delilah on Cassandra. Walking the kids to school is a favor I rarely get to repay. But Cassandra is autonomous. She’s independent. By her own admission, she doesn’t like to ask for help. I never get the chance to reciprocate.

I take Leo to Charlotte’s. I head to work. On my way, my phone pings and I break out into a cold sweat. I glance at the phone with reluctance, knowing I have to. It might be a client in labor.

It’s not. What it is instead is a variation of the same text I received last night. I gasp and drop my phone, but not before I’ve read the message.

I know what you did. You’ll never get away with it, bitch.