Page 30 of Dirty Little Midlife Drama

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

Piper gives me a flat look. “No? Because I can. You’re the woman who built an empire of facials and wrinkle relaxers in your twenties. Deciding to start an art gallery on a whim seems very typical of you.”

Chest warm, I turn back to the flooring samples. Piper talks me through each and every one of them, including cost and her reasons for including them. The tension from earlier melts from her shoulders, and an old, long-forgotten energy sparks in her eyes.

Once upon a time, my sister was on a trajectory to be a successful interior designer. That was before she had kids, before she decided to stay home with them. I sometimes wonder if staying home wasn’t what she truly wanted. I remember when she was pregnant with Nate, she’d say things like, “Jacob and I think it’s best for me to quit my job and stay home with the baby.” It was never, “I want to do this,” or “I can’t wait to be a stay-at-home mom.” Her words always had a sort of fatalistic energy attached to them. It was duty, not joy.

Was I reading too much into it? Being a stay-at-home mom is the hardest job of all and seeing the boys now, I know she did a great job—is still doing a great job. I just wonder if my sister gave up too much so her ex-husband could pursuehiscareer. Why did Piper have to sacrifice everything? Why couldn’t she work part-time, have a life outside of motherhood? Why couldn’t Jacob cut back on his hours so Piper could chaseherdreams?

Now that she and her ex are divorced and Piper has full custody, it doesn’t seem fair that she’s in a much worse position than he is, financially and professionally. Her sacrifices seem too big.

As Piper and I discuss the design of the gallery, we lose track of time. Finally, little heads poke out from the family room, and a second later, the boys are tearing around the room like child-sized bouncy balls. Piper tries to wrangle them while I grab a bag from the hall closet, pouring the contents out on my kitchen floor. HotWheels come tumbling out of the bag in a big pile on the floor, which stops Nate and Alec in their tracks right before sending them into fits of ecstasy.

They quickly discover that my hallway is the perfect racetrack for toy cars. I’m roped into being a referee for their races, and pretty soon, my cheeks hurt from laughing so much.

Piper leaves to go unpack suitcases for her and the boys, reappearing a while later while we prepare for the championship toy car race. On my hands and knees holding a toy Lamborghini (the unbeaten champion of the HotWheels races so far, a coveted yellow car that Nate pulled from his pocket when the races began), I grin at her. “Did you get everything done?”

“Yep. Even had a nice, hot wash in that amazing rain shower. How do you feel about takeout tonight? I’m pooped, and I don’t feel like cooking.”

Nate’s eyes gleam as he looks at his brother. “Mommy said poop.”

Alec giggles. Piper fights a smile.

I lean back against the wall, passing the Lambo back to Alec. “Sure. Boys, help me up.” I extend my arms toward my nephews. The two of them haul me up to my feet and nearly yank me over until I’m tumbling again, but I manage to catch myself against the opposite wall, laughing.

Piper clicks her tongue, but there’s amusement in her eyes. She smiles at me, and I know it was the right decision to invite her over here. We both needed this.

“There’s a good taco place in town,” I say, straightening. Every part of my body creaks after sitting and kneeling on the hard floor for so long. I’m going to need to go to Candice’s yoga class more often, because I am not as flexible as I used to be.

“TACOS!” Nate screams. Alec throws his arms up and shrieks.

Piper clicks her tongue and hushes the boys, who mostly listen to her. Kind of. It’s hard to tell past the ringing in my ears.

“We could eat out?” I say. “They deliver, but it always tastes better at the restaurant.”

“What do you think, Alec?” Piper says, running her hands through her son’s hair.

“TACOS!” Alec shouts, throwing his arms around his mother’s waist.

She laughs and wrangles them toward the front door, where there’s a mad hubbub to get the boys’ shoes on and get them loaded up into my sister’s car. She still has a bunch of bags in the front seat, and by the way she sighs at the sight of them, I know she’s sick of unpacking.

“Leave the bags,” I say. “I’ll take my scooter.”

“SCOOTER?” Nate yells through the open door, straining against his car seat straps. “AUNTIE GEORGIA HAS A SCOOTER?”

“Hush,” Piper chides. “Inside voice.”

“But we’re outside, Mommy,” Nate says reasonably.

“He’s got you there,” I note with a chuckle.

Piper gives me a death glare. “Don’t encourage them.”

I click the button on my garage and listen to theoohsandaahsof my young nephews as my red Vespa is revealed. I wheel it out and toot the horn (to their immense delight) before sliding my helmet on.

“Coooool,” the boys breathe through the open car window, enraptured.

I can’t help but laugh. Piper slides behind the wheel, and we all head into Heart’s Cove for the first family dinner we’ve had in a long, long while.

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