Page 18 of In a Word, Yes

“Wimpy.”

Right. How could I forget? Is theNew York Times’word games department on a mission to torment me?

“Geez, Louise,” I say. “No need for name-calling.” She guffaws cutely as I hang my cardigan over the back of my chair. “Dot, are you sensing a theme with these five-letter words lately?”

“Hmm?” She tears the wrap off a fresh ream of printer paper. “Whatcha mean, punkin?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” Rarely have I let Dot in on my private world of self-denigration. Or anyone, for that matter. Today I’m tempted.

I mean, I’m far removed from the age when I could blame lapses in confidence on my endlessly gifted older sister. What was the point in entertaining lofty goals when Vanessa already had every aspiration on lock? Well, except one. There was always one area in which I was free to become the GOAT—anticipating everyone’s needs, or what I perceived to be their needs, but my own. How naturally this took root the moment Mikey got sick.

And then of course, I gave my ex-husband carte blanche to grind my self-doubts even deeper. A role he’d taken to like a raccoon to a trash can.

Intellectually I can sort the lies from the reality of how God sees me and who he made me to be. So why do I still struggle? When Chase looks at me, what do I want him to see?

“Actually, Dot, you know what? It’snotnothing. Okay, here it is. Here’s the thing. I’m the kind of person who thinks scheduling breakfast for dinner makes me a superhero.”

“Ilooove breakfast for dinner!Especially when waffles are involved. Oh! Or eggs benny, or—”

But this isn’t me asking. This is me confessing. “I mean,” I interrupt, despite Dot’s round-eyed enthusiasm, “when was the last time I exercised real courage?”

“Courage.” She says the word slowly, as if her taste buds are trying it out—and rejecting it. “You mean like ... jumping out of a plane?”

“Yes. I mean, no!”

Dot fans the stack of oversized pages before nestling them into the paper tray. “Phew. Thank the good Lord.” She presses several buttons, and Bertha the copy machine hums to life.

“I mean, it needs to be something ... bigger, maybe? Something more, I don’t know ... experiential, I guess?”

“Like what?” Now she’s distracted by the baby lipstick plant on my desk. “Aww. Who’s this cute little fella?”

Shoot. See, this is what happens when I become self-focused. “I almost forgot. He’s all yours. How’s Poochy doing?”

“Seriously, Lucy, you are the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met, do you know that?” She squeezes me from the side.

“Pshaw.”

“No, really! You’re out there every day, planting seeds and spreading kindness like wildflowers.”

Obviously, her praise is extreme. Somehow Dot sees the woman I hope to become. Still, when I open my mouth to form a knee-jerk denial, an internal whisper silences me. Courtesy dictates I receive my friend’s splendiferous bouquet of words, no matter how squeamish I feel. So I do. I say thank you.

“Also, no worries,” she says. “Poochy’s going to be just fine.”

“Oh, yay. And you?”

“Good as gold. Truly.”

“Really? You amaze me. How’d you bounce back so fast?”

“What’s a little bad news? As they say, it takes both rain and sunshine to make a rainbow. And it’s certainly not my first rainbow. Get it?” She elbows me. “Not my first rainbow?”

I pull a face.

“Rodeo? Rainy-bow?”

“Dot, I get it already.”

“Ooh-ooh-ooh, I know. You could sign up to do one of those civilian ride-alongs for SpaceX! Don’t they love to recruit journalists?” Absently, she retrieves her printed pages from the copy machine. “I wonder if you can text photos from outer space...”