Free Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis by Robyn Harding

friend replies, not following my sotto voce lead. “If it was just about the lobster costume, you could have talked about it in the office.”
    “Maybe he was hungry. Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
    “Uh … because the Choice Hottie asked you out for lunch.”
    “The Teen Choice Hottie.”
    “Whatever. Do you know how many women enter radio contests and stuff, just to meet that guy for two minutes?”
    “Not women,” I correct her, “girls. Cody’s a teen heartthrob. Grown women are not lusting after him.”
    “You’d be surprised.”
    “Trust me. Sam and her friends worship him.”
    “I still think you should be really flattered,” Camille says, digging through a box of plastic creepie-crawlies. “A super-hot TV star is into you. Maybe you should tell Trent about that, next time he’s too busy to come for enchiladas.”
    I can’t deny that she has a point. But would Trent care that another man is interested in me? I have a bad feeling not. My husband has been an endless source of disappointment since our pointless couch reunion. He said he’d call Sam and she still hasn’t heard from him. It’s one thing to blow me off, but quite another to do it to our daughter.
    Luckily, I hadn’t told Sam that he was planning to take her out for a burger, so she wasn’t disappointed. She’s been really pouring herself into her piece for the art show in two weeks. I’m at least thankful she has that positive, creative outlet instead of drowning her sorrows in a lunchtime bottle of liquor.
    After twenty minutes of fruitless digging, I volunteer to drive out to the Burnaby prop house to look for the plastic frogs we need for Cody’s science class to dissect. A glance at my watch tells me it’s already 5:30. By the time I get out there, find the frogs, and drive back to the studio in rush hour traffic, it’s going to be at least eight. I try to shrug off the wave of guilt that engulfs me, but to no avail. Sam’s father walked out on us, and I can’t even get home to make her a grilled cheese and a bowl of soup. What kind of mother am I?
    As I head to my desk, I combat the tears that are threatening to come. But giving in to self-pity won’t help anything. Instead, I decide to channel my emotions into anger. Samantha wouldn’t have to be left alone if Trent would step up to the plate. Before my outrage subsides, I call him at the office.
    “Hi,” his cheerful recorded voice says. “You’ve reached Trent Vaughn. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
    “It’s me,”I snap. “I’m going to be home late tonight, so I need you to be with Sam … When you get this message, call me back so that I know you’re going to pick her up or whatever.”
    When I hang up, I dial my daughter at home. “Hi honey,” I say brightly. “How was your day?”
    “Fine.”
    “Good. How’s the art project coming along?”
    “Fine.”
    “I can’t wait to see it! You’ve really put a lot of hard work into it.”
    I hear her exasperated sigh on the end of the line. “What do you want, Mom? I’m trying to watch TV.”
    “Okay, well, I’m going to be a little bit late tonight. But I left a message for your dad, and I thought you two could have an evening together. Maybe get him to take you for dinner?”
    “I already ate.”
    “Oh … What did you have?”
    “Chips.”
    I almost start crying again. My little, fatherless child is home alone eating chips for dinner! It’s like some sad movie about life in the projects. I can’t do this. “I’m going to see if Camille can do the Burnaby run. I’m coming home now.”
    “No, it’s okay. I can hang with Dad.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve gotta go, Mom.”
    “Okay, sweetie. Will you do me a favor?”
    “What?” She sounds irritable.
    “Please eat some carrot sticks or something with some vitamins in it?”
    “I will. See you later.”
    She’s fine,