I was 35 when I found out I wasn’t the favorite. My son, Teddy, and I liked to cuddle on the couch and read fairy tales, mostly about wicked stepmothers and gallant men who swooped in to save princesses and battle ogres. Anything could happen in the woods. The story of Hansel and Gretel was still rich in rotation, and Teddy could not fathom the horrible treatment of the children. Parents left their kids in the woods to die? I’d find Teddy alone in his room, acting out the story in a cardboard box, pretending to be the caged boy being fattened up for the oven.
One reading, Teddy looked up at me with his rich chocolate eyes and long lashes and asked if a parent could love one child more than another. He was most likely thinking of the birth of his sister, Stella, who was fast asleep across the nursery in her pink bassinet. “Oh no,” I said, smiling. Because of all the “New Sibling” books I’d been reading, I had expected this question months ago when Stella came home from the hospital. I endured ten hours of labor with Teddy, but with Stella, it was a breeze. My baby girl came merrily into the world with apple blossom cheeks and a full head of light hair. The doctors all remarked on what a sweet child she was, and strangers stopped to comment on her adorable pout.
“There is room for all children in a mother’s heart,” I said, thinking how privileged I was to have two when so many had problems with infertility.
Teddy squeezed against my postpartum rolls and snuggled into my armpit. His head smelled like baby powder. He’d always been attached to me, never wanting to leave my side for preschool or soccer camp. Maybe this was how it was with boys. I thought of myself as an octopus with more than enough love and arms to get Teddy and Stella through the physical and emotional hurdles of the day.
“It’s the same with parents. You love both your mommy and daddy the same amount, right?” I was thinking then of Greg at work, picking up Friday night pizza on his way home so I wouldn’t have to cook, and my heart almost exploded.
“No,” Teddy said. “I don’t love you both the same.”
I gave him a little squeeze. My silly billy, my funny bunny.
“Of course, you do,” I said, thinking Teddy’s love for Greg might feel different because he was always at work, and didn’t spend 24-hours-a-day caretaking, getting up in the middle of the night, comforting Teddy when he was hurt, making smiley face snacks and singing lullabies. I thought of the nine and a half months I carried Teddy in my stomach and how he was still a part of me, separated. My body was sacrificed for Teddy, my abdominal wall was ruined, and I still peed a little bit when I sneezed.
“I love Daddy more,” Teddy said.
I felt like I had been slapped.
Teddy blinked up at me through a curtain of black hair and his coal-colored eyes were piercing, even though his position remained unbearably pressed against me.
“You don’t mean that,” I finally said in a hoarse voice.
“Yes, I do,” he said, smiling. “I love Daddy more than you.”
I shifted my body away from him. “That’s unkind,” I said in my schoolmarm’s voice, reserved for when he hit other children or wouldn’t share with his cousin. He continued to stare, and even though I knew my child-rearing books would say he was testing boundaries, I couldn’t help feeling hurt. I had been up all night for weeks, nursing the baby, and was surviving on less than three hours of sleep, all for my children.
“It’s true,” Teddy said. And something about his open expression made me believe him. He didn’t notice what he was saying was hurtful; he was telling the truth.
“Fine,” I said, distracted by the baby’s soft coos across the room. “That’s just fine.” Stella fell back to sleep with her pudgy hand clutching the corner of her sleep sack. Before I could stop myself, I replied with four words that would forever change our lives.
“Stella is my favorite.”
Greg was a good husband and father. We met through friends at a summer barbecue, and he asked for my phone number instead of finding me on social media, which I found sweet and antiquated. He was tall yet plain-looking and had a stable job, the kind of guy to get up in the middle of the night to bring me water. Plus, he was upfront about wanting a big family. That was important to me from the start. I never understood girlfriends who tiptoed around the subject. Like it wouldn’t come up eventually.
I knew Greg would be a good provider. What I didn’t expect was how much he’d enjoy the actual duties of fatherhood. Where some men refused to change diapers, Greg always jumped to wipe a bottom or give a bath. But there were other issues. Greg looked at his son the way he used to look at me. He jumped up in the middle of the night if he heard Teddy cry, but never brought me tea in bed on weekends anymore. As Teddy grew into toddlerhood, Greg was promoted to Senior VP which meant a lot more money but more hours at the office and a long commute home from the city. He was hesitant to take the job.
“Are you crazy?” I asked him. “With the extra money, we can redo the kitchen or send Teddy to preschool.” I had a laundry list of other ways to use the money. “We all have to make some sacrifices for the family.”
Greg accepted the job and left Teddy and me to fend for ourselves most evenings and a lot of weekends. He was sour on the company and complained about his “work-life” balance, but from where I stood, he seemed content. He’d come home after team-building happy hours, with sharp clothes and whiskey on his breath, to find me in worn-through sweats, unwashed hair, and piles of dirty dishes.
The few weekends Greg was around, he’d offer to take Teddy out for the whole day so I could catch up on sleep, or chores, or self-care. All the things I couldn’t do when I was stuck at home with my child. As soon as Greg got Teddy in the stroller and out the door, I’d sink into the sofa and end up wasting hours watching “The Bachelor”, wondering why my husband never wanted to spend the day with me instead of Teddy. The two of them would return grinning from ear to ear, recounting adventures on playgrounds and trips to the beach. Instead of reviving me, those long afternoons made me feel worse, and the subsequent “date nights’ Greg suggested in response were intolerable.
One night in particular, when Teddy was three, Greg’s mother visited from Virginia and offered to babysit. After I put Teddy down, I got dressed up in my pre-baby “fancy” clothes, squeezing into a black, out-of-style, one-shouldered dress.
“This is how it happens,” I thought, looking in the mirror at my lumpy body. My feet couldn’t tolerate heels anymore, so I settled on dowdy black loafers. I blew out my mane of thick hair (my only good feature after pregnancy) and caked-on makeup, but the whole thing had the smell of desperation. Neither Greg nor his mother remarked on how pretty I looked because even they didn’t dare lie to my face.
“I can’t fit into my other shoes,” I said before anyone had the chance to ask about the loafers.
“Honey, if you don’t start wearing heels again soon, you’ll never be able to,” Greg’s mother said, shaking her helmet hair.
“I’m still getting over my plantar fasciitis, Louisa,” I said.
“Let’s just go,” said Greg, keeping the peace.
The restaurant was trendy and filled with first dates and groups of loud singles in their twenties. The waiter was mean and hurried us through the courses.
“I used to be someone,” I wanted to shout in the waiter’s face. “I used to wax my bikini line! I used to buy new clothes! I was just like these other women!”
Greg took me home and made love to me in silence so his mother wouldn’t hear us from the fold-out couch in the living room. I barely moved and it was over quickly. The next month I found out I was pregnant with Stella.
I didn’t plan on hiring a nanny or wet nurse when Stella was born. I didn’t with Teddy, so there was no reason to think it would be necessary with the second. I joked with Greg that the second kid would be easier since I’d done it once before. But the problem I hadn’t anticipated was the logistics of scheduling. Preschool started at 9 am but ended at 12:30 pm on the dot, and the gray-haired Director with the wooden beaded necklace didn’t allow exceptions to stroller parking, scooter storage, or late pick-ups. That meant that I’d have to wake Stella up from her afternoon nap to get Teddy, which completely threw off her precarious sleep schedule.
Deirdre appeared like an angel, although she hardly looked like one at close range. I found her when I sold a few unopened newborn bottles on the online Mommy listserve. Through the car window, Deirdre appeared as a pale pinched face, squinting. She looked small with her hair around her head like a halo. When she opened the door and came up the walkway, I saw what I missed: half of her face, neck, and body was badly burnt, and the skin was shriveled with wrinkles.
“Hello, you must be here for the bottles,” I said, over pronouncing the words, to cover up my shock. I’m sure she got that all the time, if not worse. Her corduroy jacket covered her arms, but one hand was also affected. She was late, but given what the woman had already been through, I could hardly scold her. I explained the stressful situation, of needing to get the baby up and get to Teddy’s school, feeling ridiculous as if trying to compare my suffering with hers.
Deirdre said in a voice that sounded like gravel, “You could always hire me. I’m looking for work.” She told me she cleaned as well. I didn’t even check with Greg or Teddy, I hired her on the spot. Later that night, Greg wasn’t happy that I hadn’t asked for references or done a background check. “Does she even know baby CPR?” he asked.
Deirdre started the next day, parking on the street, arriving with yellow cleaning gloves and a bag full of dirty toys. It took a while for Teddy to come around. But at his age, children don’t like disruptions to their routines or personal differences. Teddy hid behind my legs, shrieking when I introduced her. I was embarrassed, but Deirdre seemed nonplussed. She explained her sister had thrown a match into the back seat when she was a toddler in a horrific accident and had endured skin grafts and hospitals. Eventually, I pulled Teddy into his room with her and closed them in together. I told him in a bright voice to show Deirdre his toys. Then I went and rocked Stella to sleep, ignoring Teddy’s banging on the door and his cries to let him out.
Eventually, he got used to her being there. I walked Deirdre to the preschool and introduced her to the Director, explaining she’d bring Teddy home. It was a relief to offload this chore as I hadn’t realized how much I resented that part of my day. After it was all settled and we agreed on Deirdre’s fee, I felt closure. She would be Teddy’s caretaker, and I would have Stella.
Greg’s reaction to Deirdre’s deformities was perfect and his only tell was his rapid blinking when he shook her hand. Later, I shrugged off his questions, and just joked that at least I wasn’t worried he’d run off with the babysitter.
“That’s wildly insensitive,” Greg said back to me.
Having Deirdre allowed me more time to excel at being the kind of mother I wanted to be. One afternoon in a burst of energy, I told Teddy I’d bake Lemon Bars as an after-school treat. Deirdre and Teddy came in while I was carefully measuring out the flour, breaking the eggs, and grating the lemon rind.
“Oh no, Miss, there are bugs!” Deirdre shook her head at me when she saw me brush a cockroach carcass out of the powdered sugar. “You can’t give Teddy that,” she said, standing in front of the boy like I was a firing squad she was protecting him against.
“Oh, I just…,” I wished she hadn’t seen me do it. “I didn’t want Teddy to be disappointed.”
I ended up throwing the whole thing in the trash, where clouds of powdered sugar bombed the grout in the kitchen tiles, and it took Deirdre days of scrubbing in her yellow gloves to get it all out. I didn’t attempt baking again until my birthday.
I didn’t like to make a big to-do about birthdays, and I didn’t expect Greg to buy me a diamond tennis bracelet or anything like that. But everyone deserves to blow out a candle, so I’d make my own. In a magazine at the dentist’s office, I found a recipe for a strawberry shortcake layer cake, and I ripped out the page and bought a new cake pan on my way home. I followed the directions while Deirdre watched the kids, stirring up homemade whipped cream and fresh strawberries that smelled like the farm. It was incredible what could be accomplished in my tiny kitchen. Greg called to see if we should all go out to dinner, but last time we went to a restaurant, Stella insisted on sitting on my lap the whole time and Teddy made a giant mess all over the floor.
“Pick up some pizza and we’ll have that. I’ll ask Deirdre to stay for the celebration,” I said.
“Really? Whatever you want,” Greg said. “Be back in an hour.”
Teddy shrieked while playing one of his make-believe games with Deirdre and Stella gurgled during tummy time. I wedged the cake into the oven and peeked into the den.
“Deirdre, I’ve got something special in the oven, so would you listen for the timer? I’m just going to take a quick shower and get ready. Could you get the kids in their party clothes?”
The babysitter gave a curt nod.
“By the way, would you like to stay? It’s not going to be anything fancy, but I’d love you to be there.”
Deirdre’s mouth shaped into an “o” and her eyes darted down to her hands.
“I’ll pay you, of course,” I said. Heat spread across my face, and I was ashamed that moments ago I thought Deirdre would be flattered. She had her own life and didn’t care about mine.
Deirdre said, “I won’t have time to get a present though.”
“Presents!” Teddy said, jumping up and down.
“Not necessary, really!” I said, laughing about thinking she had wanted money. “It’s settled then.”
In my bedroom suite, I laid out the cream seersucker shirt dress that I bought on sale last summer but never wore for fear of the kids staining it. Then I logged into Facebook to see how many people from college sent me birthday wishes, keeping a mental tally. I undressed and stepped into the scalding hot shower, luxuriating in the water that turned my skin an angry red. I didn’t need a big party like some people. On my birthday I was surrounded by family. I smiled thinking of Stella’s white seersucker party dress and how adorable the “Mommy and Me” outfits would look. Deirdre could take a photo. Too bad Teddy didn’t have a seersucker jacket; he’d be the odd one out.
My thoughts were interrupted by a commotion. I couldn’t even take a shower on my birthday without having all hell break loose. Wasn’t this what I paid Deirdre to deal with? Whatever was going on would have to be dealt with by someone else for once. That could be Deirdre’s present to me.
There was a sharp knock on my door, probably Deirdre, but I had globbed fancy conditioner on my hair that needed to sit for ten minutes. I finger-combed the silky cream through the thick strands. While the conditioner sat in my hair, I shaved my legs and armpits, using Greg’s razor since I stopped buying my own eons ago. Around the same time, I stopped having time for self-care.
Things would be different now that I had Deirdre part-time. I could think about myself, rather than everyone else all the time. The next knock on the door sounded aggressive, but Deirdre would be glad later to have proven her capabilities with whatever meltdown or missing sock was occurring. Most likely, she wanted to let me know Greg was home with the pizza. I’d come out, with my hair blown straight, in a new dress and they’d crowd around to gawk at my transformation.
“I can’t hear you,” I yelled out of the shower, matching the pitch of the urgent rapping. Someone yelled something back in a muffled voice. Then I washed out the conditioner, dismayed at the hair that ended up clogging the drain.
With the towel wrapped securely around my head, I sat down at my vanity table with three-paneled mirrors that had been left to us by Greg’s grandmother. No one else had wanted it; his cousins all had modern houses and weren’t interested in antiques-- not even the old lady, who had died old and alone. I smoothed the skin under my eyes. My jawline was jowly, and my marionette lines were pronounced. I patted on an eye cream that smelled medicinal. Next, from the bottles and ointments set on the table, I selected a rose-hip lotion that I used on special occasions because the scent was intoxicating and a little went a long way. I dropped my towel onto the rug and detangled my locks, struggling to unknot the dark strands with the same determination I took with Teddy after a bath. Behind me, I could see the reflection of my bed, with the stained white coverlet and bedside bassinet. A few of Teddy’s books were piled up on the bedside table, and a stash of laundry sat, untouched, on the chair in the corner. The scent of soiled diapers permeated the house. This was not a room that encouraged romance.
The sound of a cat whining echoed through the closed door, and I wondered if that’s what was going on. Maybe Greg brought one home for my birthday. Just what I needed, yet another thing to take care of. I snipped tags off my new dress and slipped the dress over my head. It was like a tent, and more suited for a day of boating than dinner, but at least it was clean and new. I plugged in my hairdryer, the one that got so hot, I had to keep it moving if I didn’t want a haircut. Greg always joked that it smelled like burnt toast when I was finished, but today the smell really was overwhelming. I’d just work faster, and I dumped my head upside down to reach the back. It could take an hour to finish drying my whole head, so I always waited to put on makeup. The loud whirr of the machine sounded like echoes of screaming or the white noise of piercing wind. The drone reminded me of the wind turbines they had wanted to install just five miles away. Real estate prices would have plummeted, according to Greg. Eventually, you probably got used to the sound. Halfway through. I swung my head up and continued with the top and sides, using a round brush to try to smooth it out. The sound reminded me of machine-cutting metal. I’d be happy I’d spent the extra effort when we’d have a perfect family photo. I could smell hair burning, but it would be worth the sacrifice. When I clicked off the dryer, the sudden silence was a shock. I didn’t hear anything from the other rooms, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was alone. Maybe Greg did come home, and there was a surprise in store for me, and we were going on a family vacation. I hooked a locket around my neck, the one that Greg gave me when Stella was born with her birthdate etched onto the back.
In the mirror, I still looked like a middle-aged suburban mother, but more like a TV mom now and not the real one who wears black leggings with holes in the crotch. I was ready for the party, although I felt a tickle in the back of my throat, and a dry cough coming on. At the last minute, I blotted on some freckle-colored lipstick and opened the door.
My house, which minutes before had been a fixed object in my mind, was now turned sideways like a Salvador Dali painting. The upholstered slipper chair lay on its side, the coffee table dumped haphazardly across the room, and the landline (that Greg insisted on keeping for emergencies) was off the hook. The house could have been ransacked, if not for the strange fog that blanketed the room like the mist off a pond. I stepped gingerly over a strewn sticker book, covering my mouth to cough, and went to the kitchen. Every hair on my head frizzed back up from the humidity, and my scalp felt damp. The ecru stove was covered in white foam. The oven door was hanging open in a scream. "Hansel, stick out your finger so that I can feel how soon you'll be fattened." The tile floor was charred. Soot leeched onto every surface. On the counter was a cake pan. My birthday dessert transformed into a cake of coal. I touched it with my hand and it turned to ash.
“My god,” a voice said. “Oh, my lord.” I was the one screaming. I couldn’t breathe, and I was coughing. I put my hand on my chest, leaving a large black streak on the white dress.
“You can’t be in here, ma’am.” An older man in a rubber suit pointed to the front door with an axe. “You have to go outside.”
I nodded, clutching my throat, and stumbled towards the open front door, afraid I was going to be sick. I couldn’t breathe. My throat felt like it was full of cotton balls. On the porch, my eyes teared up and I leaned over to gag, my hands on my knees, but nothing came out. The taste of chemicals permeated my mouth, my nose, my ears. I puckered my lips like Teddy when he ate lemons off the tree. “Ah, ah, ah,” I choked the sounds out. Where were my children?
When I looked into the yard, the world, which had been on pause, began to play again: the blares of the fire truck, the trampled dahlias in the flower bed, the groups of busy men, some coiling a hose and others reattaching tools to the truck. No sound of a baby crying. Neighbors stood in the street, home from work and holding briefcases or out of their kitchens waving wooden spoons, all of them tutting and shaking their heads. “A tragedy,” one said.
A Honda Accord came to a stop diagonally in front of the house. The driver’s door swung. A man jumped out clutching the top of his head. It was Greg. He wasn’t looking at me.
I swung my neck in the other direction across the yard. An ambulance was parked in the driveway. The doors to the back were open, blocking my view. My arms were limp, and my slack mouth was open. If I tried walking, I would have fallen. Greg veered around a man with a hose but got caught up and half-stepped and half-stumbled over the wide tubing. His eyes were wide.
And then the ambulance doors closed. The sirens flashed. The vehicle pulled out of the driveway at a steady clip. On the other side of the gravel stood Teddy, appearing out of thin air like a magic show. He was holding the hand of an EMT worker in ruined party clothes. His fist was in his mouth. Greg charged at him like an ogre with madness in his eyes, and my son shrunk away.
“Mommy!” The words pierced the wind like an arrow, pointing to where I stood. All the faces on the lawn swiveled to look at me. Teddy wrenched away from the emergency worker and hurled himself across the yard as fast as his legs would go. Up the steps. He ran towards me. His favorite, after all. I opened my arms.