Adam’s mom has dinner ready when Adam and Felicity stagger through the door with the kids at seven o’clock. It’s an awful time to arrive. The twins should be in bed by seven thirty and Leona, at six months, is starving and furious, her diaper heavy with neglect.
“Did they wear their snowsuits all the way here?” Greta asks.
Felicity bristles. “They wanted to.”
She should have removed their snowsuits before they got on the road, but she had a complicated patient at the end of the day and by the time they picked the kids up from daycare they were in such a rush that she hadn’t thought clearly about the logistics of a four hour trek through the mountains.
Leona’s baby face is red with heat and anger as Felicity unzips her. Felicity feels Greta, hovering nearby, watching, ready to jump in with a comment or critique. Already the air in the house feels thin, and Felicity tries to remain calm. In the kitchen, Adam eats something straight from the stovetop, germs be damned.
“Sit down, there’s plenty for everyone.” Greta scolds him, her pleasure obvious. She takes his hunger as a compliment to her cooking.
“I’m gonna get Leona cleaned up,” Felicity says, excusing herself to the back bedroom where all five of them will sleep. Adam and his mother can feed the boys. Felicity’s stomach is growling but the thought of eating Greta’s food causes a sort of resistance to rise in her. She will not give her the satisfaction. She pulls a granola bar from her backpack and chews hungrily as she changes Leona’s diaper and feeds her, quieting her wails, releasing the hardness in her breasts. She doesn’t want to return to the kitchen. Tomorrow is New Years Eve and for the eighth year in a row she’ll spend it here, with Greta and Mark Thurmond rather than with her own friends or family. She’ll ring in yet another year in a place where she feels completely alone.
Adam is Greta and Mark’s only son. They have a daughter — Becca — but Adam is the prize who will continue the family line. It seems repulsive, in this day and age, to prize a son over a daughter, and yet that’s what happens here. Their respect for maleness extends to Felicity and Adam’s twin boys, Ryder and Evan, each of whom are treasured for their potential to perpetuate the family line, as though the Thurmonds are some sort of royalty. Felicity, like Leona and Becca, lacks that basic utility.
Felicity kisses the fuzz on Leona’s head, a consolation.
Eventually, Adam knocks.
“Are you coming?”
“Yeah. I had to feed Leona.” Felicity can hear the edge in her tone and Adam retreats as though struck. He’ll be annoyed now, will say she snapped at him. For a few hours he’ll feel he has the high ground. But he doesn’t. He just doesn’t yet know she knows.
Felicity straightens her spine and carries Leona to the great room, a large open space for everyone to gather. The bedrooms and kitchen all connect to this room. There is no escape. Greta swoops in, arms outstretched to hold Leona, and Felicity hands her over with a mix of gratitude and regret. She doesn’t want to hold Leona; she doesn’t want to share her.
The boys are on the floor, wrestling over a new truck Greta must have only bought one of. Felicity steps over them. In the kitchen, she scoops food onto plates. They need to eat quickly and get to bed or they’ll be grumpy in the morning. Adam comes up behind her, a hand on her back. “You okay?”
It’s a check-in that would usually melt her resolve. Usually, when they come here she feels instantly abandoned. Alone. Under his parents’ gaze Adam transforms into the prize-son they raised him to be, a boy to be doted on and celebrated. The same influence morphs her into a dutiful wife and mother, a caretaker responsible for holding it all together. Both roles are reductive, but his, at least, seems fun. Hers denies most of her humanity — her job, her brain, her personality. Although even at home she’s lost touch with much of that; Ryder and Evan emerged from her body four years ago and gobbled up every ounce of her autonomy.
“I’m fine,” Felicity says, still icy. The envelope she found this morning is in her backpack, but it may as well be wrapped around her, a wall between them. She meant to confront him with it before they got here. She meant to thrust it at him and demand answers. She considered just staying home, boycotting this whole painful charade of a trip. She always wants a reason to skip this trip — usually she prays for a stomach virus or a mild car accident to sideline her just enough to miss the three nights of excruciating conversation and company. This, finally, is a real reason, but she has three children. She can’t just stay behind.
Adam retreats and Felicity’s glad she was cold. She hopes he’s confused. Concerned. She calls the boys to the table and sits next to them, micromanaging their consumption. Across the room, Adam sits with his mother, tickling Leona’s feet with more pleasure than usual. His mother’s attention turns him into a more joyful dad. They are his prizes to show off.
“Bedtime in ten minutes,” she announces. It’s a pipe dream worth pursuing.
Adam’s dad walks into the room. He comes right for Felicity, hugging her with a ferocity she once thought was affection. Now she knows it’s merely a habitual overture, a reminder of his power.
She extracts herself. “Hi Mark. Happy New Year.”
He turns his attention to the boys, ruffling their hair, commenting on their size, predicting their future on the football field. They won’t play football, she stops herself from saying. She doesn’t bring up CTE or Colin Kaepernick or any of the other offenses the sport of football has accrued in the last few years. They don’t talk about politics here. They don’t talk about anything, actually, because what is there other than politics these days?
“You make beautiful babies,” Mark compliments Felicity before he joins Adam and Greta and Leona on the large L-shaped couch in the great room. He flicks on the television, a compulsion Adam shares. Felicity sneaks a bite of Greta’s casserole off of Ryder’s plate. It isn’t bad, though she wouldn’t say so out loud.
There are times when Felicity is more generous. Times when she panders, compliments vats of hot mayonnaise-y mush Greta puts on the table. Times when she asks how Greta’s family is, asks about Mark’s work, talks about driving routes and the weather as though it is the most interesting thing in the world. It doesn’t snow anymore, she never says. Those overtures are gifts to her husband, a way to ease the tension that seems to rise up around her when she’s with his family. But she’s not giving him any presents tonight.
Bedtime takes forever, of course. Their bedroom has a king sized bed and a bunk bed. Leona sleeps in her Pack-and-Play in the corner. At four, Ryder and Evan still resist sleep, crawling down from their bunk beds into the hall, again and again, wailing in fury when they’re returned to bed, scolded, silenced. Felicity sits on the king bed, snapping at the boys to be quiet, to close their eyes, to sleep. She passes the time playing Wordle, texting her friends for comfort. She doesn’t tell them about the envelope. It’s too humiliating; she can’t admit it to anyone. Not yet.
She must fall asleep because it’s dark when Adam finally comes into the room, easing into bed beside her with a quiet designed to let her sleep. There were times when he would wake her, his hands hungry for her body. They had good sex in this house. It was the silver lining of the visit, as though the oppressiveness of bland conversation and bland food could be broken with dirty words and rough touches. She imagined he liked to feel like a rebellious teen, trying to stay quiet with his parents down the hall. Sometimes she wanted to wail loudly, to draw attention to what they were doing. Fuck me, Fuck me harder, she didn’t say.
But tonight he doesn’t wake her and he doesn’t reach for her.
Tomorrow is the last day of the year. Growing up, holidays felt sentimental, marked with resolutions and reflections. At Thanksgiving, her family would share what they were grateful for, and tears would spill down the adults’ faces in a way that was confusing to the kids. But she got it now, the warmth of recognition, the way it could move you to see what was right in front of you and say yes, this is good. This is enough. This is a miracle.
But the Thurmonds are not sentimental people. A few years ago, when Felicity asked everyone what their resolution would be they looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language. She didn’t ask anymore, though she wanted Ryder and Evan and Leona to grow up in a house that was soft and warm, where the truth and beauty of an ordinary day was acknowledged and appreciated.
She’ll talk to Adam in the morning. They shouldn’t start the new year with this weight between them. Though she isn’t sure what he’ll say to make it right. What’s done is done, and he did it all on his own without talking to her. It stings to even consider his motivation.
Leona wakes up several times during the night, and by morning Felicity is ragged with exhaustion and frustration. Adam, of course, lay prone all night, unresponsive to Leona’s wails. The baby is Felicity’s job, a cage Felicity built for herself by insisting on breastfeeding for a full year; a prison imposed on her by experts and societal expectations. But a jail is a jail, regardless of the wardens.
Felicity is still in bed when Becca and Brent arrive. Becca and Brent don’t have kids yet. They’re vivacious and happy in a way that makes Felicity jealous and spiteful. She resents their lack of responsibility, their carefree existence. And Brent is fratty and bro-ish. She found him repulsive even before the whole country began to feel steeped in similar misogyny.
Felicity pulls on joggers and a bra, fixes her bun and splashes water on her face before she leaves the room, braced for the new energy in the house. Brent’s mouth is full when she walks into the kitchen but he talks anyway. “Morning sleeping beauty.” Crumbs spatter from his mouth and no one flinches. Becca gives Felicity a hug and offers her coffee, and the morning unfolds in an excruciatingly slow rhythm of diapers and crumbs, sticky hands and dull conversations. No one laughs or tells jokes. They regurgitate logistics — what time is dinner, when is the next time they’ll get together — inside out, again and again. The idea of staying up until midnight is crushing. She watches her husband move easily through this space, with these people. He’s an alien to her here. Even when they leave he’ll seem strange and changed for a while; it will take a few days to shed the residue of this version of himself, before she can look at him without seeing his father and mother imprinted upon him.
The bill in the envelope said the procedure was done two months ago. Felicity can’t remember a day when Adam seemed immobilized or hurt. She can’t even remember a day when he was busy, when he didn’t answer his phone. How long did a vasectomy take? People always marvel at how quick and easy they are — nothing like the excruciating insertion of IUDs or the serious undertaking of having your tubes tied. Women are fertile twelve days a year for twenty years. Men can reproduce 365 days a year. There are whole message boards devoted to the impracticality of regulating fertility through the woman’s body rather than the mans.
They hadn’t talked about having more kids; they never discussed a vasectomy. Is he cheating on her? She considers that, her heart surging with adrenaline. What would she do? Could she leave, now, when their life was so difficult? She pictures herself: a single mom, with three young children and no help. Or maybe it would be nice to split custody, to have a few days off each week.
She’ll leave. She’ll stay. Really, she doesn’t want to know right now, when she hasn’t had a night of sleep in many months, when she feels fragile and unhinged, even at work where people respect her, trust with their health. She can’t deal with a separation right now.
And besides, it doesn’t seem likely he’s cheating. She can’t actually imagine he is. He likes her. He’s happy with her. They laugh together, so often and so easily. They touch. Although, Leona has changed things. The third child takes up so much space. There’s no room for Adam and Felicity anymore, no time to talk, no time to embrace. Always there’s a small body between them, each child loud and demanding, unceasing.
In the great room, Brent talks loudly, taking up space. He wants everyone to go snowshoeing, and Felicity looks towards Leona, sitting peacefully on the warm floor surrounded by small squeaky toys. It would be so nice to leave the house but she can’t go far: she has no pumped milk. If Leona wakes hungry, no one else will be able to comfort her.
“We’re heading out.” Adam yells a moment later, somehow already dressed in snow gear, never pausing to ask permission for the fun he seeks. Felicity wonders if he notes her silence, if he reads anything into it. Once, he would have kissed her goodbye, taken in the look on her face, responded to whatever she was showing. But everything really has changed in the last six months.
Felicity is warming up leftover casserole to feed the boys for lunch when Adam’s dad, Mark, comes into the kitchen. “How’s the good doctor?” he asks, a refrain he repeats each time they cross paths as though he can’t conceive of another question to ask a woman like Felicity. “Still happy you went with primary care?”
“It’s good,” Felicity says, her voice as flat as a pancake.
“You know, the real money is in specialties.” This is always the end of Mark’s sentence, as though he, from his position of complete and total remove, will shed new light on her career path and prospects. She had planned to specialize. Felicity wanted to be an obstetrician. But her first baby turned out to be twins, arriving at the end of her residency with a ferocity that bowled her over, knocking her into a pit of sleep deprivation and responsibility that she couldn’t see her way out of. The realities of a fellowship followed by a career of on-call overnights suddenly seemed misguided. Adam would make partner at his law firm before Felicity even finished school.
Primary care gives her a predictable schedule and interesting medical questions. She’s happy with her career, and knows she probably wouldn’t be happy in the life she once imagined. But she doesn’t appreciate the regular reminder of her comparatively paltry earnings from this man who inherited his father’s trucking empire, who considers himself an expert on nearly everything because he’s always had a birds eye view of the world.
“Greta, what time’s dinner?” Mark asks his wife, who will prepare the usual New Years Eve menu of pigs in a blanket and creamed corn and overcooked strip steaks. Becca and Greta will dress festively for dinner, prepared to have real conversations — weather and traffic related, of course — like civilized adults. Felicity will chase her children and try to keep them quiet and seated, failing terribly and then whisking them off to bed. And then, at midnight, the whole family will sing Auld Lang Syne with a vat of emotion that implies they understand the lyrics. Her father-in-law will tear up, even, at the sentiment he imagines the song conveys. Adam will join in, put his arm around her or — worse — his father.
The whole charade reminds Felicity of the last night at sleepaway camp, when everyone linked arms and swayed together, belting out verse after verse of American Pie, oblivious to its metaphors and meaning. People cried then too, for the end it represented: a return to their homes and families, their regular friends and lives. Felicity isn’t sure what the Thurmonds are sobbing about when they sing Auld Lang Syne.
The first year, when Adam was still new to her, she appreciated the sentimental song, imagined it as a sign of depth. But eight years later she knows better. Nothing real — no fear or pain or uncertainty — penetrates the Thurmond veneer. Any acknowledgement of true feeling or vulnerability, any conversation that touches on complexity, is squished out. Visits here remind her of that part of Adam, that inclination towards removal that he usually overcomes. But not always.
***
Three hours later Adam still isn’t back from snowshoeing with Brent and Becca. The kids are napping and in the silence Adam’s absence feels larger, like abandonment. Where is he? There’s nowhere to go, no destination for miles.
Felicity paces the dark bedroom, unable to turn on a light or television for fear of waking the kids, and not willing to leave the room and make small-talk with her in-laws. It’s nearly two o’clock and she can feel herself spiraling. She takes deep breaths and tries to remain calm. She’ll go find him. It isn’t that complicated. She’ll get in the jeep and go find him.
Minutes later, buckled into layers of warmth and heavy boots, Felicity starts the car. If the baby cries, Greta will go to her, surely. But this mission won’t take long, and already she feels better. The air is clear and cold and it snaps her from the depths of her wallowing. She turns on the car and pulls down the long drive to the main road, a single lane curvature bisecting the mountain. There’s a ski resort several peaks over, nearly fourteen miles away. It seems unlikely that Adam would have — could have — walked all the way there. It occurs to Felicity that this is a rescue mission, and she tries Adam’s phone again, and then Becca’s, but neither rings more than once. Away from the house there’s very little service.
Felicity drives slowly, eyes peeled for dark shapes in the snow, and now her heart races with anticipation of what she will find. What if they’re all dead, frozen under an avalanche? She imagines telling Greta and Mark. She doesn’t imagine telling the kids, a thought too painful to contemplate. But she thinks about the drive home, alone in this front seat, the three kids in the back. What would life be like without Adam? Maybe fine. Maybe awful. Maybe both.
At the ski resort, Felicity parks in front and leaves the car running. She’s not likely to find them here but it’s the only destination she can imagine. She walks past the ski shop, the roaring fire, the people wet with melting powder, stomping awkwardly in their ski boots. Downstairs, the Foggy Goggle bar is so packed that it takes Felicity a moment to spot Adam, Becca and Brent squished together around a small table in the back corner. What the fuck? Felicity stares at them. Becca is talking animatedly, waving her arms, and Brent is laughing and chiming in. He can never shut the fuck up.
Adam has a beer in front of him and seems engaged. She doesn’t go to him. He hasn’t answered her calls. He’s been gone nearly four hours with no texts or calls. He hasn’t thought of her at all. She wants to leave — no, she wants to pack her bags and get in the car and drive home, leaving him with the weight and responsibility of their life.
He looks up and meets her eyes, surprised. Confused. He stands and walks to her and Felicity turns to steel, willing herself not to cry.
“What’s wrong?” Adam asks when he reaches her.
Felicity fills her lungs. The bar is so packed, there’s so much noise and clutter, layers of bright fleece and musty wetness wafting from every available inch. “You’ve been gone for hours.”
He examines her face, as though trying to measure the situation. “I told you we were snowshoeing.”
“It’s been four hours.”
“We decided to grab a beer before we went back.”
“So you were going to be gone for eight hours and not tell me anything?”
“Felicity, relax. I knew you were okay. I figured you were busy at the house.”
“Busy with what?” She spits the words, the question implying all he knows she feels, the mind-numbing oppressiveness of conversation with his family, the imprisonment in their winter wonderland. “Busy watching your kids.”
“Our kids. And yea, but I mean, my mom is there. You should have come with us.”
“I didn’t know you were going to be gone for so long.” It sounds sort of dumb now.
“Felicity, I never see Becca and Brent. It’s good to spend time with them, and I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Adam looks confused again, which is infuriating because the year is 2024 and not looking at your phone is impossible. Except for Adam, who buries his phone in his pockets. “It’s in one one of my layers. I just didn’t know you were looking for me. Come sit, have a beer.”
Brent and Becca are looking at her. They think she’s uptight and angry, no fun at all. Well, see how fun you are when you keep getting fucking pregnant, Becca. She doesn’t want to go sit with them. She doesn’t want any part of this midday soiree.
“Did you drive here?”
“Yes. You want me to leave?”
“I just said to come have a beer. Of course I don’t want you to leave.”
The conversation is going nowhere and Felicity isn’t even sure what she wants other than complete contrition, permission to return to New York, a confession, a declaration of love and devotion.
“I’ll see you later.” She walks out. Let him snowshoe home for three hours bracing for her anger. Maybe that’s what he needs — some time to dwell. She wishes he had friends to talk to, to set him right, tell him he’s wrong. Brent isn’t that friend. Brent will tell him he’s the man for not taking shit from his wife.
Outside the snow is falling hard, harder than it was before, and it occurs to Felicity that their journey back will be harder and longer. She waits for a few moments to see if Adam follows, checks her phone, and then starts the car.
***
It only takes half an hour for Adam to get back. He’s soaked in a way that makes his mother fuss when he walks in the door, and he accepts the hot coffee she offers before heading toward the hot shower she suggests.
“How did you get back?”
“I got a ride. I came after you but you were gone — I had to pay the bill. Why’d you just leave?”
“How was I supposed to know you were following me?”
He shakes his head and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door. She hears the water running.
When she got back to the house Leona was awake and hungry and the boys were wrestling in the living room. She stepped in, snapping at everyone in a way that embarrassed her, and then apologized, hugging them to her, tickling them.
Everyone’s peaceful now and Becca and Brent will be back soon. She needs to talk to Adam. She needs to find her way back to the relationship that is her home. New Years here makes her feel like she’s slogging to the end of the year, crawling across the finish line as a shell of herself. Every year she says they won’t do this again next year, and then she forgets and relents, subscribing to the potential of the place. But it’s always the same.
When Adam gets out of the shower Felicity’s waiting on the bed, legs crossed. She watches as he dries off and pulls on a familiar hoodie and a pair of jeans. He doesn’t look at her and then he does.
“Why are you so mad?”
Felicity extends her arm, showing him the envelope she’s clutching. He takes it.
She asks: “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Or did you figure this was an easy way to tell me?”
It takes Adam a minute to understand. He examines the paper, a medical bill. And then he looks up at her, inscrutable. “I was going to tell you.”
“After you did it. You were going to tell me after you did it?”
“Soon.”
“Don’t you think we should have talked about it?” Felicity hears her own righteousness but she doesn’t care. She’s right. It’s good to feel right once in a while, exhilarating even.
“I didn’t think you’d disagree.”
“What?” She’s sputtering.
Adam sits on the bed, his back to her, as though talking to her face is hard.
“How could you think I wouldn’t disagree?” If he thought she’d agree he would have told her.
“You want more kids? Felicity, that’s insane. We’re drowning.”
“I’m drowning,” she leans into the I.
“We both are.” He turns to look at her, ready to reason. “Look, Leona was a surprise, and I mean, you were in charge then. And it wasn’t what we wanted. And you’re the one who always says its fucked up that the woman has to be in charge of birth control and, I just wanted to take charge.”
“You wanted to take charge.” The phrase, in this context, is repulsive.
“Yeah.”
Felicity remembers her positive pregnancy test with Leona. She was nauseous, just a little, and then late. And so she took a test. When the lines appeared she felt dread, not about the baby, but about telling Adam, who she knew wasn’t ready for another kid.
“I think I deserved to be a part of that decision,” she says now.
“I think I deserved to be a part of the decision about Leona.”
“What are you talking about? That wasn’t a decision.”
“You told me you were getting an IUD.”
“I was getting an IUD.”
He looks at her now, incredulous. “When? You told me you were getting one and then a year later you still hadn’t? How is that possible? You left it up to chance. You let it happen. You wanted another baby and you didn’t want to talk about it with me.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong. She had meant to get an IUD, but time just kept slipping away from her. She had long days rounding at the hospital, daycare pick-ups and drop-offs, pediatrician visits and playdates. They were both so worn down and overwhelmed — Adam was trying to make partner and she was a newly minted doctor — the IUD had just fallen through the cracks.
“I wasn’t ready for it either,” Felicity says, which she’s said before but hasn’t said for a long time, because once a child arrives you don’t say you didn’t want them. It’s unbearable to imagine you didn’t want them. “And I’m not ready for another one now, or maybe ever. But you didn’t even ask me.”
Adam doesn’t talk for a while. He stands and paces the room, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to leave, to go into the great room and talk about nothing with his parents instead of excavating the truth here with her. But he stays. “I didn’t want to talk about it with you.”
He didn’t want to. It’s so honest that it breaks her next retort. Somehow this admission releases some of her anger. The truth sets you free. Sometimes.
“Why not?” Though she can imagine a hundred reasons why not. Those conversations have never been easy with them — they’ve never been on the same page at the same time. But they do catch up to one another eventually, convening to do what needs to be done, to love the little lives they’ve brought into the world.
Adam’s calm when he talks. “I know what I want. I don’t want any more kids. I don’t think you do either, but you — I don’t think you feel like you can say that. And I see what having kids does to you. You’re not yourself anymore. You gave up your fellowship and you barely see friends, you don’t sleep, you don’t want to have sex, you’re angry all the time — you have this ledger in your head of how much you do and how much everyone else does and everyone fails. I fail. And why would we do more of this?”
Defenses rise like a reflex. “Maybe I wouldn’t be miserable and exhausted if you did more. If it was more even. It’s not fair—”
“—you don’t make room for anyone else to do anything. Give Leona formula. Let me feed her. You jump out of bed when someone cries and you—”
“—Jump first, Adam! Jump first. You lie there like you’re dead.”
“Because I know you’ll handle it.”
“But I don’t want to handle it.”
“Exactly. Exactly Felicity, no one wants this.”
She shakes her head, not ready to concede her higher ground. “They’re little. It will get easier. We can’t make this huge decision now, when we’re in the middle of the worst of it. What if in five years we want another one, and we can’t. I’m young. We’re young.”
“I won’t. I love them. I’m full. I won’t want more.”
“Well I guess that’s good because you won’t have more.” She flings it like a weapon she wants to lodge in his heart, but he just shrugs because it’s the circumstance he sought.
***
When they leave the bedroom Felicity’s surprised to see that Greta has the kids playing and the table set. Everyone sits down and Greta asks for Adam to say grace, Felicity listens to his words of gratitude for the food, the people, the good fortune. Thanks to who? she doesn’t ask.
“Oh, dear. I forgot the creamed corn,” Greta says, and Felicity rises from her seat, glad to escape to the kitchen for a moment. The creamed corn casserole looks indistinguishable from the other messes they’ve consumed in this short stay. She carries the hot pan in mittened hands and is almost at the table when she hears Becca tap her knife against a glass, requesting attention from a table of people already poised to listen. “We have an announcement.”
Felicity sets the casserole on the table as Brent jumps in, announcing with jubilation:“We’re pregnant!”
Instinctively, Felicity moves her face into a smile, her eyes refusing to meet Adams. Somehow this is the last thing she expected Becca to announce. A move, a job, a new designer dog — all are more plausible than this. Does Becca even want kids? Does Brent? It feels preposterous.
Greta is beaming, clapping, releasing a few tears: her reflexes are uncomplicated and cooperative. Even Adam stands and walks around the table to embrace his sister, to slap Brent on the back — attaboy Brent — and Felicity sees that he’s smiling a real smile, delighted by the news. Becca must not have told him when they were out earlier in the day. She pictures Becca and Brent at the bar with Adam. Becca had had a beer in front of her, hadn’t she? And right now she has a glass of wine.
“But you’re drinking,” Felicity hears the words leave her mouth before she can stop herself, watches the words carry across the table, dimming the celebration.
Becca shrugs, unconcerned. “I know. But everyone does these days. There’s this book and it says it’s all overblown, the rules, the fear — it’s really fine. I mean, obviously in moderation. But like, a drink a day is not going to cause fetal alcohol syndrome.” Becca says it with such an air of authority. Such a tone of condescension. These days.
“But that’s your second drink.” Felicity says, and she can’t believe she is saying it. What has come over her? Where are her manners, her social niceties? She can feel Adam’s eyes on her, urging her to be quiet, but she can’t stop herself. “And that guidance is for later in pregnancy. How far along are you?”
“Six weeks,” Becca says, unashamed. “And it’s really fine, Felicity. I’m not concerned.”
“But did you read—”
“Felicity. It’s fine.” Adam spoke now, a reprimand, and Felicity knows she deserves it.
They’re all looking at her, waiting for her to respond. She has no ally here. “I’m sorry. I just— Congratulations. That’s wonderful. So exciting.” She tries to force joy into her voice.
“Thank you,” says Becca, a small grace. “I’m really excited.”
The family falls in line now, asking the requisite questions: were you trying? was this planned? when are you due? Felicity stares at her plate in front of her, the room spinning slightly, and she can’t slow it — can’t slow her mind — enough to find solid ground.
“I need to run to the bathroom,” she mumbles, moving quickly into their bedroom where she sits on the bed breathing deeply, trying to steady herself. Her brain races with uncharitable thoughts: Becca is irresponsible — reckless even — and so stupid to drink, to take for granted that it will be okay. Brent will be a terrible father, of course. A terrible partner. He’ll raise a terrible child. They’ll both be in for a rude awakening. You can’t be selfish and self-centered when you’re a mom; you can’t be spontaneous and fun and cool. They have no idea, she thinks with a bitterness that surprises her.
Why is she so angry? Why is she sitting here shaking, wallowing in her own martyrdom rather than extending an arm to invite Becca into this new world? This new life. This gorgeous, chaotic, impossibly full life that she herself chose to have.
Adam opens the door. “Are you coming back out?”
She looks up, trying to read the expression on his face. He’s not contrite but he’s not mad either. Her misbehavior has leveled something between them and she’s annoyed with herself for ceding the higher ground. “I want to leave. Can we please leave?”
Adam shuts the door and walks to where she sits on the bed. “Now?”
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice is weak and she knows it’s a futile suggestion. “I just can’t do this here right now. I can’t be with them.”
He smirks a little. “I noticed.”
She glares at him because it’s his fault and he shouldn’t forget that. “Well.”
He nods, getting her point.
“Is Becca mad?” Felicity asks, surprised to realize she cares.
Adam shakes his head. “I don’t think so. You know how she is.” She does. Becca is bouncy and bright, impervious to bad news, confident in the potential of every moment to be better than the one before it. She’s young and privileged and she’s allowed herself to indulge in every advantage of those truths. It would take a lot more than a comment about drinking to permeate her relentless sense of well-being. Of optimism.
Outside the door she hears Adam’s family and a part of her wants him to leave, to go be with them, to choose them over her and fulfill every fear and expectation she carried into this trip. But he just looks at her, waiting.
She hears Evan giggling, his four-year-old laugh loud and contagious. It stops abruptly and Greta scolds Ryder who probably seized the toy that was bringing his brother joy. Or maybe he just wandered over and took a bite out of Evan’s ankle, just for fun, just because he could. Now Evan cries too, and Felicity knows she should help calm everyone, but Adam puts his hand on her knee. “They’re fine.”
“I need a minute,” she says.
“Okay.”
“I’m really mad at you,” she says, because Becca has highlighted her own sense of loss. There will be no more pregnancy announcements for her. No more t-shirts bearing the news I’m a big brother. There will be no more moments when the possibility of their family unfolds before them, a cascade of moments and memories yet to be made with a human they haven’t yet met.
It’s hard to be a mom but she’s done it, and often she feels she does it well. And now some of her potential has been capped before she’s had a chance to reach it.
“I know.”
“I can’t believe you did that without talking to me. That’s a really big thing to do all on your own. I thought we were a team and that’s not what a team does.”
Adam is quiet and she can feel him weighing his defenses, evaluating tactics. Felicity continues, her thoughts flowing more clearly now, her righteousness weakened by her misstep with Becca. “I wasn’t ready to make that decision.”
“I know.” Adam lays back on the bed so that he is talking to the ceiling. “I guess I convinced myself it wasn’t that big of a deal, and that you’d probably be glad I did it because obviously this isn’t working. And then I did it and I knew it was big and it was too big to tell you about.”
“So what was your plan?”
“I guess I hoped that one day you would say you wanted me to get one and I would just pretend to get it then.”
“Wow.” The lie hurts. The willingness to lie, to perpetuate a lie. Felicity lays back on the bed. Her anger is so rich, it is almost indulgent. She could bathe in it. She could drown in it. Outside the door, Leona wails, hungry.
“I’ll get her,” Adam offers, rising.
Felicity looks at the envelope on the bedside table. She looks at the bill again. It’s just a piece of paper. She reads the words until they lose meaning, until they stop shocking her, stop hurting. Did she really ever want a fourth child?
Adam walks in again, holding Leona. Adam has her plate in his hand, and she appreciates the thought. She takes Leona from him and is unclipping her bra when he walks back in with a plate of his own.
“Can I eat with you?”
Despite herself, she cries. She lets him kiss her head. Leona’s eyes are open, watching as she sucks dutifully at Felicity’s breast. Felicity chews her charred steak and looks at her daughter. Her tears fall onto Leona’s head but Leona is undisturbed.
“I’m sorry,” Adam says.
Felicity nods but doesn’t speak. She’ll accept his apology, of course, because there’s nothing else to do. They chose each other eight years ago, and now they’re bound by unforgiving constraints, so connected by obligation that they can forget, easily and often, that they are also bound by choice. She feels lighter when she remembers that she picked him. To choose something is such a privilege, such freedom. It must have felt good for Adam to do it — to make a choice about his life.
Felicity has spent years only reacting, like her decision to have a baby four and a half years ago set off a chain of events that erased her volition and left her responsive to one event after another. It’s a boy. Two boys actually. The Fellowship deadline is a week away. You can make more money if you become a hospitalist right away, and you can control your hours. Oh, another pregnancy. Was it planned? It’s a girl. She’s hungry. They’re tired. Did they get their flu shots yet? He has a cavity. She has a strange rash. Daycare is closed. There’s a snow day. There’s an outbreak of lice and hand foot and mouth and strep throat and the babysitter canceled and the roof is leaking and — where did she go? What would she choose if she could choose something today? She pictures Becca, unaware of the ways she is about to be changed. She doesn’t envy Becca.
“You have to talk to me,” she tells Adam.
“I know. I’m sorry. I really am.”
She nods and scoops some mashed potatoes from his plate. The door opens and Evan and Ryder come in, chasing one another. Evan reaches for her but pivots when he sees Leona on her lap, crawling onto Adam instead. Ryder climbs up onto the top bunk and peers over, scaring them.
“Ryder, get down. Come give mommy a hug.”
Evan races to her, eager to beat his brother, ready for any affection he can lap up. “What’s wrong, mommy?” He asks, looking at her red eyes. “Are you hurt mommy?”
“I’m okay,” she whispers into his soft curls. “I’m okay.”
Outside, the Thurmonds wait, but this room is her own kingdom. Adam and the boys and Leona. This is their family. They’re finished. Complete.
Thank you, she doesn’t say to Adam.
In the morning they drive back to the city, to the noise and fervor of their real lives. They don’t talk about what Adam did, but they both move a bit more lightly, as though the future has opened more clearly before them. There are still appointments and playdates and work obligations, a tedium of activity that absorbs the days, causes time to slow and fly in equal measure. It takes another whole month before Felicity notices that her period is late, that her breasts ache even when they aren’t full of milk. She’s four months along, the swell of her stomach a sign of more than her failure to lose the baby weight.
When she tells Adam, she cries, because neither of them chose this.
Image by K8 on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- Cups of Kindness - June 27, 2025