ONE
“It’s Caren. Caren with a ‘C.’”
The woman I’ve introduced myself to smiles, her eyes widening in recognition. “Oh sure! I remember your daughter. Rachel, right? She used to carry a teddy bear with her—even in middle school.”
“Koala bear.” I scan the woman’s face, trying to remember whose mom she is, but I can’t quite place her.
“Right,” she says. “And where is Rachel off to this fall?”
“Georgetown.”
“Wow. First choice?”
First choice? Wait list? Early admission or early decision? Legacy?
I’ve had a variation of the same conversation about college at least ten times so far at this party and it’s getting old. I answer the woman with a nod, pivot, and start to wander through the Allards’ backyard, looking for a different cluster of parents to meld into. I’ve lost count of the number of school graduation parties I’ve attended these past two weeks, and as I survey allthese parents, some of whom I’ve known for more than fifteen years, it hits me—it’s over. This part of my life—being a mother to school-age kids—has officially ended. I squeeze back tears. I don’t want to cry in public. I’ve cried enough since Rachel walked across the stage and moved her tassel from right to left.
Around me, the voices of my neighbors and friends dissolve into a familiar din of chatting and laughing, occasionally punctuated by a whoop from one of the teenagers at the party.
A hand on my arm startles me.
“Caren! Can you believe it? We’re finally free!” Kenya beams at me, eyes bright with champagne. “No more car pools. No more PTA.” She does a little shimmy as if shaking off twenty years of motherhood.
I force a laugh. “Crazy, right?” I keep a smile glued to my face, but my mind drifts to the quiet that will soon settle on my house like dust in an abandoned room.
Kenya launches into the drama of searching for the ideal college roommate for her son, Noah. “It’s really like online dating, all this swiping.” And how her husband, Shawn, and Noah have locked horns over the necessity of a PlayStation 5 in college. As I listen, I find myself wishing I was home, or at least on our friend Yumi’s screened-in porch, enjoying a quiet cocktail. These parties are easier with Miguel by my side, but he’s not in Bethesda with me; he’s in Rehoboth opening up the beach house. Zach, my oldest, is gone too, staying at college this summer for an internship in a lab, and Rachel’s camping. I shouldn’t have come here. Why am I here if no one else in my family is? To make an appearance. To be neighborly. But I feel like the odd mom out.
“Just look at them.” Kenya gestures toward Noah. He’sstanding next to the guest of honor, Eloïse Allard, near the drinks table, two young adults on the cusp of adulthood, their arms slung around each other. “I remember when they used to build forts in our backyard. Rachel too. Where is Rachel?”
“Still on the camping trip with some kids from school.” Rachel left right after graduation to hike part of the Long Trail in Vermont with some friends. New friends. Down-to-earth kids she had met at the teeny private school we put her in halfway through her junior year when she was tanking at the massive public high school she’d been attending.
“Oh, too bad she’s missing this.”
“You know Rachel, she’s not that into parties.” And she’s not. In lieu of a bash, or beach week, all she wanted was to spend some time in the forest. “She just wanted to go into the woods for a week with some friends. ‘Unplug,’ she said.”
Still, it stings a little to be here. To see Eloïse, Rachel’s former best friend, and Noah and other kids she started kindergarten with all celebrating together. I remind myself that different kids take different paths and that’s okay. Rachel would hate this party—she’d mock the giant gold Mylar balloons that spell outCONGRATS ELOÏSE!complete with two tiny gold Mylar dots forming an umlaut over theias if Americans did not know how to pronounce the name. Not to mention the life-size cutout of Eloïse hoisting a lacrosse stick over her shoulder.
“Smart girl,” Kenya says. “We did good. Our kids are ready to fly the nest.”
More laughter. More chatter.
I should be celebrating too. I should be relieved. The past few years have been difficult. Getting Rachel through high school in one piece felt like a Herculean effort. But all I canthink about is the silence waiting on the other side of this summer. And the way my house—my life—is about to feel too big, too empty. I long to share this with Kenya, who’s been a friend for years, but I don’t want to spoil her good mood.
I finish my drink. I’m ready to go home.
Just as I am about to try for an exit, Eloïse’s father, Daniel, approaches. He’s doling out flutes of champagne, and I get swept back up in the conversation. A few more people join our group, people I’ve known since their kids were in kindergarten with Rachel, some better than others, but we’ve all been on the same journey. Whether I feel close to each one or not, there exists a bond.
Daniel holds his glass aloft. “Salut! We made it,” Daniel says with the faintest hint of a French accent, despite having lived in the States since his twenties.
“Salut,” I say in return, clinking glasses.
“I’m glad you came,” he says to me. “I remember when Eloïse and Rachel were like this.” He holds up his hand, two fingers intertwined. “Kids, they fall in and out of friendship. But there’s no reason for us not to celebrate together.”
“Any excuse to drink your champagne, Daniel.” I take a sip before something unkind about Eloïse slips out of my mouth. Kids do fall in and out of friendships, but it felt more like my daughter had been booted out. Daniel chuckles, his paunch straining at his white linen shirt. His girth is a nod to his enjoyment of good food, just as the red dribble on his shirt is a tribute to his love of wine. He’s always been the life of the party, a heavy drinker, full of hugs, slightly raunchy jokes, and a stark contrast to his wife, Jo—née JoAnne Valdini, originally from the south shore of Long Island—a rail-thin marathon addictwith a precision-cut blond bob. Take this party, for example. No way Daniel had anything to do with the two food trucks parked outside or the photo booth crammed into the side yard.
“So, Caren, what are you doing these days?” Daniel asks. “Staying busy?”
I wince. It’s a question I’ve been fielding at social events ever since I took an early retirement package last year. It means, are you working yet? Are youstillunemployed?