Always the Last to Know(37)

I waited for my second-born to love me the way Juliet had. She didn’t. She didn’t hate me, of course not, but we just didn’t have that special connection. Sometimes I’d see her looking at me, and I swore she knew. What was it about me that she sensed? That I was a fake? That I hadn’t wanted her as much as I’d wanted Juliet? Was I a terrible mother?

During this same time, Juliet and I became closer than ever. Whether she knew it or not, I think she saved me. The sweet girl would bring me a cup of tea without asking if I wanted one, or she’d pick me flowers from the garden, knowing I was too tired to do it myself. That Mother’s Day, she gave me a card that said, “After intensive research and based on my own experiences, this fact cannot be denied: you are the best mother in the history of the world.” That was also the day Sadie cried and cried; she was teething, so I rubbed her gums, and she bit down hard, slicing my finger with her razor blade of a new tooth. My finger bled a shocking amount, and it throbbed for the rest of the day.

That about summed things up. I kept trying to get my second-born to love me, and everything I did was wrong, whereas my first daughter continued to adore and like me. I tried. I really did. You can’t compare your children, all the authorities said, and I tried not to. I wanted to make room for Sadie. I tried to. But John was her favorite, and my poor body was ravaged by the pregnancy and birth. While I had bounced back in weeks after Juliet, it took nearly a year before my incision stopped hurting, before I could pee normally again.

Decades later, when postpartum depression came into the social conversation, I recognized that I’d had it with Sadie. It didn’t solve anything, but it was good to know. But once again, something in me had been wrong. Always, always my fault.

As Sadie grew, our relationship didn’t change much. If she woke from a nightmare, she called out for Daddy, not Mommy. She wanted him to push her on the swing, him to take her to the library on Saturdays, him to make her macaroni and cheese. (They both thought Kraft was better than my homemade version, which I found ridiculous. If there’s one thing a Minnesotan knows, it’s how to make a baked dish with noodles in it, thank you.)

Juliet started high school when Sadie was two, and the dreaded countdown began for the time she would leave me. Every minute of those four years with her was precious, every drive, every morning when I made her breakfast, every weekend, every little moment we had together. Sadie would go to bed at seven or seven thirty—the earlier the better, as far as I was concerned. I let John read to her at night, telling myself it was only fair, since he’d missed out on those times with Juliet. It also gave me more time with Juliet, who told me about her classmates, her papers, which teachers were better, who was going to the spring dance.

When she was at school, I’d try to play with Sadie, but neither of our hearts were in it. If I made her a fort, she’d want to be in it alone. She told me hide-and-seek was only fun with Daddy and “Jules.” She didn’t like to bake or knit or pick flowers. If I drew with her, she was lost in her own little world. I’d ask her what she thought of my picture, and she’d say, “It’s nice. Will you make lunch now?”

But Juliet never let me down, was never sullen, didn’t have sex as a teenager, managed to have a nice group of friends without too much drama. She went to Harvard, and I sobbed all the way back from Cambridge. After that, I visited her once a month, trying not to let on that I needed those visits, that they sustained me. At college, she’d introduce me all around, and she was proud of me. Of me. “This is my awesome mother,” she’d say, putting her arm around me and resting her head on my shoulder. “My best friend.” We’d go shopping and have lunch and stroll around campus, hand in hand. Yes. We still held hands. Sadie only let me hold hers if we were crossing a street, and only because I insisted.

Juliet was so . . . kind. So generous. I was more grateful than I could put into words. Meanwhile, Sadie didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t take my advice. I loved my second child, but she was her father’s girl, lost in her head, dreamy, unaware of her surroundings, sloppy, heedless of my requests to put her dirty laundry in the basket or bring her plate to the counter. I tried to engage, to feel as close, but she wasn’t interested. When I asked if she wanted me to read her a story, she’d say no, she could read herself, though she let John read The Lord of the Rings to her out loud, a story that so bored me, I couldn’t stay in the room.

I told myself not to mind. I had Juliet, after all. Juliet who, after graduating with honors from Harvard, chose Yale to get her degree in architecture. She asked if I’d come down for lunch every Wednesday. She met Oliver, who was the loveliest young man in the world. A month after they graduated—Oliver from the School of Engineering, Juliet once again with honors—Oliver drove up from New York City to Stoningham and asked me if he could have my blessing to marry my girl. Me. Not John. Of course I said yes, and he asked me what kind of ring I thought Juliet would like. I pointed him in the right direction, and when she called me the next week, we cried with joy together. (And she loved the ring.)

Oliver started calling me Mum in a way that made me feel flushed and proud. His mother was wonderful, and when she visited to talk about the wedding, we got along so well! Oliver was an only child, and Helen adored Juliet (as she should have), and asked to pay for half the wedding so it could be as extravagant as possible.

“I adore them together, don’t you?” she asked, and we bonded over our love of our offspring.