Page 82 of From Maybe to Baby

"Yeah. Right. I get it." His tone softens, and I’m relieved he’s not going to give me a load of shit about being noncommittal.

"I'll think about it," I say.

"Don’t think too long. Opportunities like this don't come often."

"I know."

“I mean, if you don’t want to do it, Alexa, I am sure there are a hundred people who do?—”

“I said I need some time to think, Ryan. I did not say I don’t want to do it,” I snap.

The call ends, leaving me staring at our Jonas’s window at the San Francisco city lights. Paris. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve ever wanted.

So why is it so terrifying? Why does it feel like I might be leaving something behind? Something good?

My phone buzzes with a message from Jonas:

Lukas wants to know if his signs should be blue or teal for practice. Apparently, it’s a crucial rookie decision.

Jace insists her pancakes need extra sprinkles for good luck.

And yet another from Jonas:

Should I be worried that my three-year-old has developed complex breakfast-related superstitions?

I can’t respond. I don’t know how to.

Paris would mean no more of… this. Or anything like it. Out of sight, out of mind. The Knight family would keep chugging along, forgetting me, in time. Jonas would meet another woman who, while she’d never replace Genny, would love him and his kids to the point where it aches. They would always hold hands and grow old and die together.

I’ve got some decisions to make, and to make them I need some distance, a distance I haven’t had in weeks. A distance that has eroded ever since a certain family decided to make a splash landing in my well-organized, solo life.

Paris. Everything I ever wanted.

Right?

It's two a.m.,and I'm holed up in Jace's room, my laptop balanced precariously on my knees. I'm ostensibly working on my latest article, but really, I'm watching her sleep, surrounded by the remnants of her "princess hockey practice"—glitter speckling her pillow, casting tiny rainbows in the dim light. It's a silly little detail that unexpectedly tightens my chest.

Since Ryan dropped his Paris bombshell, my phone has been an incessant buzz of notifications, with Instagram echoing the turmoil in my head:

What happened to child-free living?

Your content used to be so aspirational. Now it's all sticky fingers and hockey practice?

Unfollowing. I miss your escape-the-kids content. Now you're just another mom blogger.

Remember when you wrote about five-star spas instead of princess crap?

Scrolling through my feed is like tracing the outline of my unraveling life. Three months ago, I was in Bali, critiquing adults-only resorts. Two months ago, I penned that reluctant review of a family resort in Hawaii.

My latest post, featuring Lukas's "hockey princess power play," has unexpectedly gone viral. The feedback is all over the place, with some hating and some loving my story.

Lost another child-free inspiration.

When did you sell out?

Finally, real content about real life. Love this!

Has my voice evolved, or have I just completely lost the plot?

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