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They brought my dad the most depressing-looking dinner I’d ever seen—a rubbery piece of chicken, mashed potatoes that appeared gray, an iceberg lettuce salad, and a cookie in plastic wrap.

“How long did you say I had to be here?” he said.

“Not much longer,” I told him. For all I knew, he thought he’d already been there a week.

“But I have to stay the night?”

“Yes,” I said. “You want to watch TV?”

I handed him the remote, found a preseason baseball game on, and watched his eyes lock onto the screen. My dad has always loved watching baseball. He didn’t seem interested in his dinner, understandably, but he appeared content. I felt for the first time that day that I could leave his side.

“Dad, I’m going to head out, but I’ll come by tomorrow, okay?”

“I’m staying here tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him I loved him.

“Love ya, Nikki,” he said. Just like he’s always said.

The bar was a quintessential hole-in-the-wall, and the inside was made to look like a speakeasy.

Prisha was already there, sitting on one of the stools at the bar, a martini in front of her.

She had the same long, black, shiny hair she’d had in high school, cascading down her back to her waistline.

She was wearing a black pantsuit with a plunging neckline, a lacy camisole beneath.

She looked so stylish while I looked like a frumpy housewife in my black stretchy pants and an oversize sweater with obvious pilling.

She must have seen me coming out of the corner of her eye because she turned and said, “Nicole Larson.”

I didn’t correct her, didn’t tell her that my last name is now Sanchez, that I completely abandoned my ancestral roots and co-opted my husband’s Mexican identity (well, half-Mexican—his dad is from Guadalajara, his mom from Ohio).

It feels like a form of cultural appropriation—me, a Sanchez, with my sandy-blond hair, blue-green eyes, pale skin, and bare-minimum knowledge of the Spanish language.

I should have kept my maiden name. Or at the very least, I shouldn’t have felt such glee upon taking Kyle’s.

Most women seem to feel this glee at officially being possessed, updating their names on Facebook within two hours of their ceremonies.

Everyone should just keep their damn names, or hyphenate, or come up with a brand-new name.

The brand-new name could be based on one’s occupation or hobby, like in the old days—Blacksmith, Tailor, and so on.

Kyle and I could be the Bickerers—Kyle and Nicole Bickerer.

Anyway, I didn’t correct Prisha. I kind of liked that I was still Nicole Larson to her.

“Sit, sit,” she said, moving her purse from the stool next to her. I complied. I was grateful she didn’t require a hug. Like I said, we weren’t really friends . We just ran in the same circle of overachievers. I must be the biggest failure of the bunch.

“This place is perfect for my mood,” I told her.

“Dark and dingy?” she said.

“Exactly.”

She raised her hand to flag down the bartender, a skinny guy with a septum piercing. He tossed a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“Vodka tonic, please,” I said.

She took a sip of her martini and ate one of three olives off her toothpick.

“How’s your dad?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Out of it.”

“So it’s like he’s not even there anymore? Like, mentally?”

I thought of him saying “Love ya, Nikki” and said, “He’s there ... just in one-minute increments.”

“And he repeats things? Seems confused?”

“Yeah. It’s like Groundhog Day . Or Groundhog Minute , I guess.”

She shook her head. “And it’s just you taking care of things? You don’t have siblings, right?”

“Just me.”

This was the first time I’d really felt the weight of being an only child. I always knew this time would come. Living in fear of it was part of the reason I wanted Grace to have a sibling. Liv was my assurance that Grace wouldn’t have to bear the same weight in the future.

“That’s hard,” Prisha said.

If I remembered correctly, Prisha had a whole assortment of siblings, at least four of them.

“It is.”

She took a long sip of her martini. “The symptoms are really bizarre.”

I laughed. “It’s kind of nice to hear you, a doctor, say that.”

The bartender brought my drink, and I took a sip.

“I should probably know this, but what kind of doctor are you?” I asked her.

She smiled. “I’m hurt you haven’t kept up with my medical career.”

I haven’t even kept up with my own career, I wanted to say. But I wasn’t ready to confess my failures.

“I’m a perinatologist,” she said.

I wasn’t sure exactly what that was, which must have been obvious on my face, because she explained, “I handle high-risk pregnancies.”

“Oh, wow, that sounds intense.”

“It can be. I see a lot of tragedies and a lot of miracles.”

Her face showed zero emotion about this.

When it became evident that I didn’t know what to say, she jumped in:

“I should probably know this, but what kind of work do you do?”

For a second, I thought about lying. I thought about telling her I was a successful photographer and that I was going to have a gallery show in San Francisco next year.

But we were Facebook friends. The truth was right there in my profile, which she must not have visited recently because . .. why would she?

“I’m on a bit of a work hiatus at the moment,” I said. “I was a freelance graphic designer at this ad agency. They had some cutbacks. Anyway, it’s temporary.”

Now it was her turn to not know what to say.

I started to get hot. Any kind of discomfort or stress seemed to trigger the flashes. I was sure she could see the sheen of sweat on my face. She had the most beautiful skin with a perfect matte finish to it. We were the same age, but she looked to be in her hormonal prime.

We each took sips of our drinks. I was already buzzed, probably because I hadn’t eaten anything but a granola bar since breakfast.

“Are you married?” I blurted out.

She wasn’t wearing a ring, and my curiosity got the best of me.

“Hell no,” she said. I took that to mean she was divorced, as most people are not passionately opposed to marriage until they’ve been in one. But she said, “I don’t see myself ever having time for all that.”

“All that?”

“A husband, a picket fence, the kids.”

She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. As she shifted in her seat, I caught a whiff of her perfume. She smelled good. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spritzed myself with perfume.

“You?” she asked.

Again, I was tempted to lie, to tell her I was unmarried and childless. And again, I thought of how Facebook would betray me.

“I have the husband and the kids. No picket fence.”

“Ah well, you know what they say—can’t have it all.”

She didn’t ask me anything about Kyle or the girls, and I was fine with that. We chatted about various friends from high school, and when we finished our drinks, she asked if I wanted to stay for another.

“I have to get going,” I said. “My stepmom wants me there for dinner.”

The words had already left my mouth before I realized how embarrassingly juvenile they sounded.

I tapped my phone to check the time—just before seven—and sure enough, there was a text from Merry saying she was making halibut.

I stood, but Prisha didn’t. She was staying for that second drink. Her night was still young.

“Keep me posted on things with your dad,” she said as she beckoned the bartender. “If you’re up here again, text me.”

“I will, thanks.”

I left feeling sad, not just about my dad but also about Prisha’s carefree life and my lack of one.

I wanted to have an “It’s not fair” tantrum as wildly irrational as the ones Grace and Liv had.

But instead, I walked calmly to my car, and then I drove to Dad and Merry’s house to eat halibut.

Before I went to bed, though, after failing to restrain myself from texting Kyle a reminder about the teeth brushing, I went on Amazon and bought myself a thirty-dollar bottle of Vera Wang perfume.