Free Mommy Tracked by Whitney Gaskell

sort of touchy-feely question Juliet hated. Was Patrick happy? Was anyone really happy?
    “I think he enjoys the time he spends with the girls,” Juliet said carefully.
    “And what about you? Do you feel like you’ve missed out by working long hours?”
    Juliet paused. Yes, she had missed out on some things, and the guilt over that often kept her company late at night. Then again, she got the fun side of things. Patrick was the one who had to deal with potty training, pediatrician visits, and carpools. She got to have the career, the nice clothes, and the lunches out, and when she came home, dinner was made, the laundry was done, and the girls were always excited to see her, greeting her at the door with screams of pleasure. Well, on the nights when she made it home before their bedtime, anyway. And on the nights when she didn’t, she’d stand in the doorway of their shared bedroom and watch as they slept, each curled up around a favorite stuffed animal, their breath heavy and rhythmic. She knew that whatever it was she’d missed, at least she was giving the girls a positive role model. Her daughters would grow up knowing that there was more to life than getting married and changing diapers.
    Her daughters would never watch their mother spend all of her time grooming herself because her bland prettiness was her only currency and she lived in terror that her husband would lose interest in her. Juliet’s daughters would never be told to smile and flirt because “men don’t like serious girls, they like fun girls,” or to wear more eyeliner because “you have pretty eyes, but you just need to make them stand out more.” Her daughters would never find her passed out in bed, fully dressed, after she’d “mistakenly” washed down six Valium with a bottle of California chardonnay as a way of coping with a temporary separation from her husband.
    In other words, her daughters would never have to endure what Juliet went through with her mother. Growing up as Lillian Campbell’s daughter hadn’t been easy, but it did teach Juliet a valuable lesson in how not to parent.
    So, yes, maybe she did occasionally miss a dance class, or the latest Disney movie, or taking her daughters to the park and pushing them on the swings. But she was giving them more than that. She was giving them a role model. And if they didn’t appreciate it now, they certainly would when they were grown.
    “It’s worked out fine,” Juliet said. She smiled coolly at Chloe. “Better than fine. Every working woman should have a housewife.”

four
    Chloe
    A fterward, Chloe wasn’t sure why she’d done it. It had been years since she’d felt the impulse, the compulsion lying dormant for so long that she’d actually been lulled into believing she’d overcome it.
    She’d gone to Over the Moon, a posh baby boutique in picturesque downtown Orange Cove to look for a mobile for the baby’s crib. Over the Moon was a beautiful shop, painted in shades of soft green and crammed with sterling-silver rattles, cashmere receiving blankets, Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bags, and tiny outfits that cost more than what Chloe normally spent on her own clothes. Even so, she browsed through the racks of little blue sailor suits and pink linen dresses, wishing—not for the first time—that they’d found out what the baby’s sex was. But James didn’t want to know.
    “Let’s do it old school and not find out,” James had coaxed, flashing his most charming, irresistible grin.
    Chloe had finally acquiesced, not wanting to ruin the surprise for him. Not knowing the sex of the baby had seemed so important to James, more important than knowing had been to her. Except that she hadn’t known whether to decorate the nursery with pink walls and the gorgeous floral crib set she’d seen in a baby catalog or blue walls and the dinosaur set from Pottery Barn Kids. And it had meant that she couldn’t buy anything but the most gender-neutral clothes ahead of time.
    She