Page 35 of Pretend You Love Me

“Again!” Daniel says, already reaching for another push. “Higher?”

Maisie makes a sound and the swing arcs through another perfect curve, her laughter rising over the general noise of the playground.

From his position in the pram, Milo watches this entire interaction. His tiny forehead is furrowed, his eyes fixed on the swing. When Daniel turns to him with “Your turn, buddy?” he responds with a sound that can only be described as deeply sceptical, the verbal equivalent of “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“I think,” I tell Daniel, already reaching for Milo, “he wants proof that it’s as fun as Maisie is making it out to be.”

“Makes sense,” Daniel agrees, already moving toward the sandbox. “The scientific method at work.’”

The sandbox is Milo’s particular kingdom, a small, contained universe of tiny shovels and plastic buckets and the miracle of a substance that can be both solid and liquid depending on how you interact with it. We settle him at the edge, Daniel kneeling beside him with attentiveness, and for a moment, we are just two parents watching their son discover the world.

Then Daniel’s phone buzzes in his pocket and the moment breaks. He checks it quickly, thumb moving across the screen with practiced efficiency, then puts it away with a small, satisfied nod.

“Work,” he says, already turning back to Milo. “Nothing important.”

I nod, keeping my face arranged in pleasant neutrality, and watch as Daniel falls into easy conversation with another parent nearby, a man with a toddler and the wild-eyed expression. They talk about sleep schedules and developmental milestones and the miracle of children who eat anything green, Daniel charming and relaxed, laughing at something the other dad says with warmth that appears when he’s genuinely engaged.

I stand a few feet back, bouncing Maisie gently against my hip, and feel the full weight of everything I’m carrying, grief for the family I thought we were building, fury for what he destroyed, love for my children so intense that it sits in my chest like a bruise. Daniel remains completely, effortlessly unaware, just a man enjoying a Saturday morning with his family, talking to another parent about the chaos of life with small children.

Later, driving home with the twins asleep in their car seats and the radio playing quietly enough that it’s just background noise rather than an actual presence, Daniel rests one hand on the gearshift and says, “We should do this more often. Get out of the house. Just the four of us.”

“Yes,” I say, the word calm. “That would be nice.”

I stare out the passenger window at the water, grey-blue and restless, sunlight catching on the small waves in perfect diamonds, and wonder, not for the first time, how it’s possible to sit next to someone and discuss weekend plans while debating if you want to hug them and hide from the world or beat them with the car keys.

Twelve

I arrive at Henry and Diane’s house already running on fumes, three hours of broken sleep, a lukewarm coffee I drank while pumping, and the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from dressing a baby who has decided clothing is a horrific infringement on his freedom.

My outfit is careful: navy pants that miraculously don’t have mysterious stains, a soft blue sweater that says, “I am fine and normal and absolutely not planning anything,” and the only shoes I own that aren’t running shoes or slippers. I look like a woman who would describe herself as “put-together,” which is the point. Diane Quinn’s family gatherings require armour, polished enough to avoid comment and bland enough to disappear into the background when needed.

The show begins the second I unbuckle the twins from the car. Milo, already committed to making the sounds of a small human working himself up to maximum volume, is immediately shushed with a dummy that won’t last thirty seconds. Maisie, the calmer of the two, watches this entire exchange.

“Please,” I tell them, already gathering bags and bottles and the mountain of supplies that accompanies even the shortest outing with infant twins. “Just thirty minutes of not melting down. That’s all I’m asking. Thirty minutes of basic human function.”

They stare at me with unblinking focus and I breathe through the hollow feeling that’s sneaking back in..

“I know,” I say, already reaching for the doorbell. “I am already insane, you are both doomed.”

The house is what it always is: immaculate stone benches that have never once hosted an elbow, coordinated serving platters, fresh flowers that look like they were selected by a professional, framed family photographs arranged on walls with the precision of a gallery exhibition. Everything in its place. Everything as it should be. The living room alone has more throw pillows than most five-star hotels, each one fluffed to the right degree of “casual comfort”, not too perfect to suggest no one’s allowed to touch them, not too rumpled to indicate actual use.

It’s the sort of space that makes you want to check your shoes for dirt before entering, the architectural equivalent of Diane’s voice saying things like “we don’t use that kind of language in this house.” Not aggressively unwelcoming, Diane is too socially polished for that but carefully arranged to make sure you understand where you are: in someone else’s territory, playing by someone else’s rules.

Henry meets me at the door first and takes Maisie from my arms without asking. He kisses the top of my head with casual affection, his face arranged in the smile that appears when he’s genuinely pleased to see you.

“Elsie,” he says, bouncing Maisie gently against his chest. “You look wonderful. How are you?”

It’s such a normal question. I shrug, even though he’s not looking at me, and say “I’m okay,” the words coming out steadier than expected.

“Good,” he says, already turning toward the living room with Maisie balanced carefully on his hip. “That’s good. Come in, come in. Everyone’s excited to see you.”

He’s barely finished the sentence when Diane appears behind him, a perfectly timed entrance that can’t possibly be accidental. Her outfit is what I’ve come to think of as “weekend formal”, the category of clothing that looks casual if you don’t know how much it actually costs, with just enough structure to suggest she didn’t just throw it on. Her hair is arranged in the style that appears effortlessly elegant but actually requires three different products and at least twenty minutes with a round brush.

“Elsie,” she says, her smile warm in a way that never quite reaches her eyes. “Motherhood suits you, darling. Exhaustion softens people beautifully.”

The words hit me hard, round one has started. It’s not enough of a dig for me to confront her about but also not a compliment. Diane is a master at this game.

“Thanks,” I say instead or reacting. “It’s good to be here.”