Chapter Five

Stacey didn’t ask if I wanted to come.

She showed up at my door with a car seat and the kind of smile that meant I wasn’t getting out of whatever she’d planned.

“I got you a latte,” she said, balancing a travel mug, her phone, and a packet of mini muffins in one hand while knocking with the other. “Come on. Sam needs to see other kids. And you, my dear, need to see fluorescent lighting that isn’t in your own kitchen.”

I hadn’t been out all week. Not really. Not past the end of the driveway to collect the mail.

“I—Stacey, I didn’t mean today—”

“You didn’t mean never, either.”

I braided Sam’s hair, found matching clean socks, and spent too long looking for her shoes. Stacey watched me like I was a stray cat learning to use the litter box.

Sam peeked out from behind my legs.

Stacey crouched down to her level, all big eyes, heavy eyeliner, and sparkly earrings. Looking like she’d just stepped out of a salon. That was Stacey. Always looking like might be pulled onto the Good Morning America stage at any moment.

“You wanna go see some bubbles, sweetie?”

Sam nodded slowly.

“You’re doing great,” she said standing back up to my eye level. “But you need people. And maybe a vegetable that isn’t frozen.”

We ended up at the Bellingham Public Library. Downstairs, the children’s room was a riot of primary colors and laminated posters, cheerful in a way that made my throat tight. Sam joined a ring of toddlers chasing bubbles under the watchful gaze of a librarian wearing a bee antennae headband.

Stacey leaned against the wall beside me, sipping her own coffee like it was holy sacrament. “I signed you up for the Book Fair committee, by the way.”

“I didn’t—Stacey—”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t throw you into the fire. Yet.” She smiled. “I put you down as a backup. Linda flaked last year. Linda Halberg? Remember her? I think you had biology with her. She has four kids now. Lives in Ferndale. You’re gonna be amazing.”

I gave her a look.

She smiled wider.

“This is how it starts,” she said. “You think you’re just showing up for story time, and next thing you know, you’ve got a clipboard and a key to the supply cabinet.”

Later, we sat at one of the kids’ tables, half-buried in construction paper scraps from story time crafts. A 4-H permission form peeked out from under a stack of paper crowns. Stacey said she had to fill it out before the end of the week. Something about her son and chickens. Then there were gymnastics classes, swimming, Bible camp, and half a dozen other groups I couldn’t remember. I wasn’t sure there was anything she wasn’t involved in. Honestly? Probably not.

Fortunately, Sam wasn’t old enough for school. Yet.

“You don’t need a kid in school to volunteer,” Stacey said, like she could read my mind. “Sign up for something small. Come have fun with us. You’ll like it—meet the other moms.”

I wasn’t ready to be one of the moms.

Stacey must’ve sensed it, because she didn’t push. Just kept flipping through the forms like we were talking about nothing at all.

“The spring fundraiser? It’s a joke,” she muttered. “Five-dollar cookie dough? Half the parents are gluten-free, sugar-free, organic-only nightmares. You think they’re buying that stuff? Please. Their kids have never even seen a Tollhouse. Remember when we got cupcakes for birthdays? Like, actual cupcakes? Frosting and everything? Now it’s all fruit skewers and veggie trays. Someone brought hummus to Dylan’s class last month. Hummus.”

I laughed before I could help it. I’d forgotten what that felt like. Laughing.

Stacey’s mischievous gaze flicked toward me.

“That sound,” she said, “you should do it more.”

Sam stayed glued to Krista’s side but made friends with several of the other little girls. Even at three, Krista, bless her, took her newly appointed job of Best Friend very seriously.

Sam only looked around for me twice.

It felt like a miracle. And a little heartbreak.

I wasn’t so strong. I kept looking for her every few minutes, just to be sure she hadn’t disappeared entirely.

Stacey kept talking, filling the space with local school gossip and an absurd story about her oldest, Dylan, getting sent to the nurse’s office last week for eating half a stick of sidewalk chalk during indoor recess. Apparently, he told his teacher it “tasted like bravery.”

She didn’t ask about Ziya. Or what it was like, taking care of my best friend’s daughter.

It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t hard. It was exactly what I needed.

I helped her plan a bookmark contest. I brainstormed prize tiers for the fourth grader summer reading program. I pretended I wasn’t a ghost with my hands full of glitter glue and borrowed purpose.

It felt nice, though. To talk about something small. Something that didn’t hurt.

Just for a little while.

On the way out, Stacey looped her arm through mine. “You know you’re one of us now, right? The moms. We bake. We carpool. We crush all opposition.

“I’m just temporary.”

She snorted. “Sure you are. That’s what I said too. Two years later, I run the bake sale mafia. Face it, you’re a natural.”

I smiled like it didn’t hurt to hear that. Hugh and I used to talk about kids. Before he got sick. Before waking up alone and everything felt uncertain. I’d wanted to be a mother. I just hadn’t expected it to happen like this.

“I’m not even sure I’m allowed to do this—officially, I mean.”

Stacey waved it off. “You’re the one showing up. That’s what matters.”

When I got home, I looked at the library flyer asking for Story Circle volunteers again. I could do a few hours a week. It would be good for Sam to get out and meet other kids. Make some friends. 

That night, after Sam was asleep and the silence settled in again, I almost called the hospital. Just to ask if anything had changed.

I didn’t. But I thought about it.