Page 25 of Faultlines

As I sit in my car, the scent of jasmine clings heavily to my clothes. The conversation with Heidi replays in my head, but it’s Ellie’s disappointed face that surfaces. I’ve spent the entire morning focused on someone else’s child. Maybe it’s time to focus on my own.

Before I talk myself out of it, I pull into a small deli around the corner. The bell on the front door chimes and I breathe in the aroma of fresh bread.

Arriving at her school, I cross the parking lot and head toward the front door juggling two sandwiches, chips, and a giant chocolate chip cookie.

The receptionist looks up from her desk. Her computer screen casts a pale glow on her face. “Forgotten lunch?”

I shake my head. “No. This one is intentional.”

Five minutes later, the office door opens with a soft click. Ellie walks in looking confused, her backpack slung over one shoulder. When she sees me, her eyes widen. “Mom?”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“What are you doing here?”

I hold up the takeout bag, the scent of the food wafting between us. “I was hoping you’d have lunch with me.”

“Seriously?”

Her smile is worth every delayed email and missed phone call. “You’re skipping work?”

I nod in response, and we head toward the outdoor lunch tables.

“I prefer to think of it as strategic time management.”

She laughs, “That sounds like something Dad would say.”

We settle onto a shaded picnic table overlooking the athletic fields. Sunlight hits the worn wooden planks. Where we sit, the tree above offers some shade. Students fill the courtyard with laughter and shouted conversations.

It’s pleasant, and I don’t feel pulled in a dozen directions. For forty-five minutes, it’s just us. Ellie tells me about an upcoming geography assignment, an argument in her math class, and the latest drama in her friend group. I tell her about Heidi’s progress, without sharing details that aren’t mine to share.

We share a giant, crumbly chocolate chip cookie and argue good-naturedly about who deserves the bigger half. At one point, she pauses, a sprinkle of cookie on her chin. “You know, you didn’t have to do this.”

I set down my sandwich on the crinkly wax paper. “I wanted to.”

Halfway through a story about Mona’s latest romantic entanglement, my phone buzzes against the wood of the table. I don’t have to look to know it’s work. I’m conditioned to recognize the feeling. It vibrates twice more across the table.

She notices the shift in my expression. “You should answer that,” she says, already starting to gather the wrappers from our lunch. She doesn’t look at me, already assuming how this ends.

I glance down at the screen, three missed calls and a text from Marisol.

Nothing specific, just enough to make my mind race. Every instinct tells me to answer the phone, but I turn it face down instead.

Her eyebrows lift. “You aren’t answering it?”

“No.” The word surprising both of us with its firmness.

“What if it’s important?”

I look across the table and hold her gaze. “Nothing is more important than lunch with my daughter.”

A smile spreads across her face. The phone vibrates again, and I ignore it again, and her smile grows a little wider. She launches back into her story. “So, Mona broke up with him, but they were never actually dating.”

“That sounds complicated,” I say, laughing.

“It’s seventh grade, Mom. Everything is complicated.”

For once, I’m just listening, following the intricate map of her social life. Eventually, we move on to discussing whether Dad’s performance as Romeo qualifies as public humiliation.