Page 18 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

Preferred schedule.

Open to live in?

Yes.

Open to travel?

Yes.

Special skills?

I hesitate over that one, then type: Experienced in childcare routines, meal prep, emotional support, behavior management, household coordination, and creating calm environments.

It sounds very polished.

What it really means is: I can get marker out of a sofa, soothe a tantrum, make dinosaur-shaped toast, remember everyone’s appointments, and keep your child alive while you try not to lose your mind, but apparently, there’s no box for that.

Two hours later, I’ve emailed six agencies, applied for four listings, and started a spreadsheet because when life is in ruins, color-coded organization is sometimes the only form of control left.

I reward myself with vending machine chips and another bottle of water.

Living beautifully.

Around four, I force myself out of the motel because if I stay in that room any longer, I’ll fuse to the mattress and be discovered weeks later by housekeeping with a laptop balanced on my knees.

Chicago greets me with a crisp breeze off the lake and the kind of skyline that looks like it was built by overachievers. Glass, steel, and brick, and impossible confidence, all rising above streets that seem to hum with purpose.

It’s annoyingly beautiful.

I hate that Bryce brought me somewhere beautiful, that he lied, that a tiny, stupid part of me still wants an explanation that makes sense.

There isn’t one, and there probably never will be.

So I walk.

Past coffee shops, office buildings, and people who look like they know where they’re going. Past a dog in a little sweater that probably costs more than my current dinner budget. Past a florist, a bookstore, a corner deli.

The city feels alive in a way I can’t quite describe. Restless, bright, indifferent. It doesn’t care that my life imploded, and strangely, that helps. Because maybe that means I get to build a life here without my heartbreak becoming the center of the universe. Maybe I get to just be one more person in a city full of people trying to figure it out.

I stop outside a café window, eyeing the pastries like they personally betrayed me by costing eight dollars each.

Inside, everyone looks warm and well-adjusted.

I go in anyway.

If I’m going to reinvent myself, I can at least do it with caffeine.

The girl behind the counter has a nose ring, a messy bun, and the kind of expression that suggests she has seen everything and judged most of it correctly.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Something inexpensive that will emotionally stabilize me.”

She nods like that’s a perfectly normal request. “Drip coffee.”

“Beautiful. Love a practical queen.”

She smiles at that, and ten minutes later I’m sitting by the window with a paper cup and my laptop open again, using the café Wi Fi like the determined little economic refugee I am.