Claire sat back down.
Her own phone had collected nineteen new notifications.
For the first time in years, she turned it completely off.
That evening, Claire ate takeout alone at her kitchen island.
She had a beautiful condo near downtown.
High ceilings.
Expensive furniture.
A kitchen designed for people who entertained.
Claire could not remember the last time more than one person had eaten there.
At 8:17, her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
“Claire? It’s Ethan Mercer.”
She stood so fast the stool scraped the floor.
“Hi.”
“I hope this isn’t too late.”
“No.”
There was a pause.
“I checked your name.”
Claire laughed.
“I assumed you would.”
“You’re either exactly who you said you were, or you have created a very elaborate internet presence.”
“That would be a concerning amount of effort.”
He laughed too.
Then his tone became serious.
“I want to ask you some things.”
“Ask anything.”
He did.
For nearly an hour.
Where had she grown up?
Did she have siblings?
Had she spent much time around children?
What exactly had Maggie told her?
What did Claire think “mom for a day” meant?
What would they do?
Would Claire be comfortable with Ethan joining them for part of the first outing?
Claire answered every question.
She didn’t perform.
She didn’t use the polished voice she used with investors.
When she didn’t know, she said she didn’t know.
When Ethan asked why she wanted to do this after only one conversation, she gave him the same uncomfortable truth.
“I think your daughter noticed something I’ve been avoiding.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to have a life that isn’t work.”
Ethan was quiet.
Claire continued.
“And maybe spending a Saturday with a five-year-old who doesn’t care about quarterly reports would be good for me.”
