Page 104 of From Maybe to Baby

After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the window. At my somehwhat put-together Paris self. At everything I thought I wanted.

I look up flights online.

Not because I drank wine all night. Not because I'm failing at my dream job. Not because Paris isn't everything I thought it would be.

It is, and more. It’s just not what I wantany longer.

I text Ryan:

Need to cover San Francisco family spots. For contrast.

Finally. Your Paris pieces read like a cheap travel brochure

Ouch.

Then I text Lucy:

I might have done something either very brave or very stupid.

If it involves booking a flight to SF, it's about time.

I glance around my perfectly curated Paris apartment. At the dream life that’s suddenly starting to feel a little overrated. Atthe things I thought I wanted, neatly arranged and whispering,stay.

I think about packing, which won’t take much time, considering I never really unpacked.

Maybe bravery isn’t some grand, sweeping moment. Maybe it’s just admitting when perfection isn’t cutting it anymore.

Besides, Paris will survive without me.

Probably.

16

JONAS

The journal turnsup while I'm helping Lukas clean his room. Not my idea—his coach suggested some off-ice structure might help get him back to hockey. But right now my kid is mostly just shoving stuff under his bed. I don’t have the energy to argue.

"What about this?" I pull out a cardboard box filled with crayon and marker drawings.

"That's my art collection," he says seriously, like he's not four and currently wearing his shirt backwards.

Under his "collection," I find it. Genny's old journal, the one she wrote in every night. The leather's worn at the corners from being carried everywhere—she used to joke it was her backup brain.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

He half-shrugs. “Found it in your room. It was Mommy’s.”

Okay. My kid’s a klepto.

I open the journal and run my fingers over Genny’s messy handwriting. She always joked she had the penmanship of a serial killer.

“Why’d you take it? Why didn’t you show it to me?” I ask.

Another half-shrug. “I was afraid you were going to throw it out like you did all her other stuff.”

Jesus Christ. Is that what he thinks?

I sit him on the edge of the bed and pull him close. “Buddy, I gave some of your mom’s dresses to Aunt Sarah. But I never threw anything away.”

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