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In any case, Karen had no one to talk about it with anymore. Her friends had long since ceased inquiring how she was doing. And even at the time, there had been an assumption that Karen must have been happy that the whole ordeal was over. Matt had been supportive in the immediate aftermath, but Karen sensed his patience had run out too. And Karen’s brother, Rob, who sold surf equipment in Orange County and whom Karen spoke to twice a year, if that, had seemed relatively unmoved by the events, having separated himself from the family psychodrama decades earlier. Or maybe it was just that he wasn’t willing to share his grief with Karen. After all this time, he still seemed resentful that she’d been their mother’s favorite and had played the dutiful-child role that he’d never wanted for himself. On the phone, he answered Karen’s questions monosyllabically, then made up excuses about why he needed to hang up.

Suddenly desperate to reconnect with Matt, Karen followed him into their bedroom. She found him typing on his phone. “I’m sorry I implied you were a bad father,” she said. “I don’t think that, and I shouldn’t have said it. And I know you’re working really hard on this project, and it means a lot to you.”

It was another five seconds before he stopped typing. “It doesn’t matter what it means to me,” he finally answered, his tone flat and his eyes still cast south. “It’s about connecting people in need with affordable housing.”

“Matt, I’m sorry.”

“Fine,” he said. “Apology accepted.” But he didn’t smile or show other physical signs of having forgiven her. Even so, Karen walked over to him and leaned her head against his burly chest. In response, he laid a hand on her hair. But seconds later, he pulled it away. “I have to take out the garbage,” he said.

He and Karen hadn’t had sex in two weeks. When a dry spell lasted more than two weeks, Karen always began to feel antsy. Partly, it was physical. But it was also that not having sex seemed like a prime indicator of marital distress. The complicating factor was that, even as Karen craved relief on both counts, she dreaded its fulfillment, if only because the sex act seemed to require a level of energy she could no longer summon at will.



That weekend, Mia came over for a playdate, accompanied by her mother, Michelle. Aside from exchanging a few friendly smiles and partaking in a handful of three-sentence conversations about classroom-related matters, the two women barely knew each other. But Karen was determined to establish an atmosphere where both mother and daughter would feel comfortable. “Hi, you guys!” She greeted them at the door—and found herself strangely nervous. “So glad you could make it!”

“Please—Mia would not have missed it,” said Michelle, leaning in to hug and kiss Karen on both cheeks, a move whose intimacy surprised and flattered Karen.

“Well, Ruby has been excited all morning too,” she said, before turning around and calling into the distance, “Rubes—your friend is here.” Then she turned back. “Come in—please!” she said. As Karen surreptitiously scanned Michelle’s face, she was reminded of how pretty she was, with her high cheekbones and saucer-like brown eyes.

“You have such a nice place,” said Michelle, looking around the living room.

“Oh, thanks. It’s amazing what you can do with Ikea furniture!” said Karen, even though no more than two things in the whole condo—a lamp and a bookcase—hailed from the big box store. But she didn’t want Michelle to think that, just because she and Ruby might be better off than Michelle and Mia, Karen thought she was also in some way better. That said, Karen had seen Michelle and Mia coming out of an attractive, brick-fronted, newly constructed mid-rise in the morning. Given that Karen understood Michelle to have a clerical job at the bureau of sanitation, she assumed that the family lived in one of the building’s hard-to-come-by, low-income, set-aside apartments. So at least Karen didn’t have to feel guilty about having a proper home.

“Yeah, but damn, that furniture is hard to put together,” said Michelle.

“Tell me about it,” said Karen, laughing. “Would you guys like something to drink?” She leaned down. “What about you, Mia? I was thinking of making hot chocolate.”

The child didn’t answer; she just stood there, clutching her mother’s sleeve and staring at Karen.

Karen stared back, fascinated not only by Mia’s shiny and perfectly executed black braids, which were so tight that her eyes appeared to be capable of peripheral vision, but also by Mia’s clothes. Karen couldn’t help but notice that they were adorned with tiny polo players. Nor did the garments appear to be designer knockoffs. The stitching was flawless, the cotton luxuriously thick and soft. Which meant that Michelle had likely spent a small fortune on the outfit, which further confused Karen. How could she afford to spend that kind of dough on her daughter’s clothing? Or was it simply that Michelle took pride in her daughter looking cute and, like all mothers, splurged on occasion, putting the charges on Visa?

But if the latter was true, was there an aspirational element to the selection? Or had the polo-player logo long since ceased to signify a desire to hang out with the kind of people who actually played polo? And how did that relate to the fact that Mia’s current best friend (Ruby) was Caucasian? Or did Michelle not think about these things?

“Mia, answer Ruby’s mom,” said Michelle.