Free Seven Year Switch (2010) by Claire Cook

the living room. Anastasia was sitting on the couch, flipping through the album of photos of Seth.
    â€œHey,” I whispered. “How did it go?”
    She smiled up at me. “We’re having a welcome home party. I’m going to make the decorations, and Dad’s going to bring the presents. What do you want to do?”
    I looked at her. I twisted my mouth into a smile.
    Scream , I thought. While the daughter and the father plan their reunion, what the mother wants to do is scream.

11
    NOT THAT I WAS AN EXPERT, BUT IT SEEMED TO ME THAT my best bet for removing the rusty metal railings was to chip away at the cement that anchored the posts to the ground.
    I wasn’t exactly the kind of person who got all domestic under stress. But I’d been awake for hours, straightening up my bedroom/office and cleaning the bathroom. I’d even started washing the windows. My plan was that I’d keep picking away on the insides of the windows, then move on to the outsides, so they’d all be spotless by Sunday.
    Maybe it was my way of staying anchored to my house, when everything in me wanted to grab Anastasia and run. My brain knew I wouldn’t do it, but my body wasn’t cooperating. I was wired with nervous energy and truly understood the expression jumping out of my skin . I was ready to jump out of my skin and my life.
    I slid the flat end of the screwdriver into a crack in the cement. I couldn’t care less what Seth thought of my housekeeping, or anything else, for that matter. But a part of me wanted him to see firsthand that even though he’d stacked the deck against me, I’d managed not only to carry on, but to make everything I touched sparkle, literally as well as figuratively. Anastasia might need occasional, evenly spaced visits from him—what child wouldn’t—but, even though he owed me—big time—I didn’t need a thing from him.
    I hit the other end of the screwdriver with the hammer. Nothing. I tried wiggling it back and forth. Still nothing. I stepped back and gave the metal railing a whack with the hammer.
    It let out a loud bell-like ring. The kids at the bus stop all turned in my direction. Anastasia shook her head to let me know that I was the most embarrassing mother ever.
    â€œSorry,” I mouthed.
    The bus rolled down the street and stopped. I watched Anastasia fall into line with the other kids, climb the steps, and disappear from view. She didn’t reappear, which meant she’d chosen a seat on the side of the bus I couldn’t see.
    The bus driver beeped.
    Cynthia’s three kids came running out of their house. Lexi was combing her hair with a wide-tooth comb. Treasure was still zipping up her backpack. Parker took a final bite of his Pop-Tart and threw the wrapper over his shoulder as he ran.
    Cynthia jogged down the sidewalk behind them. She was wearing a baby blue tank top and a matching tennis skirt. “I saw that,” she yelled. “Get back here right now and pick that up, young man.”
    Parker half turned around.
    The bus driver gunned the motor.
    â€œParker,” Cynthia yelled. “You know how I feel about remembering what planet we’re on.”
    I sprinted over and picked up the Pop-Tart wrapper. “Got it,” I yelled.
    Parker climbed up the stairs of the bus. The doors barely cleared his backside when they closed.
    â€œSay thank you to Miss Murray,” Cynthia yelled after the bus, though I noticed she made no effort to collect Parker’s Pop-Tart wrapper.
    She turned to me. “Is it Ms. Murray or Miss Murray? I never know what to tell my kids to call people when they don’t have a husband.”
    â€œActually,” I said, “I seem to have one again. At least technically.”
    It wasn’t so much that I’d decided to confide in Cynthia when I said it. It was more like trying out the sound of something in an empty auditorium.
    â€œWhere is he?” she