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It is Wednesday, so Liv’s ear infection should be mostly cleared up by tomorrow, meaning I should have no issues driving up north on Friday.

I will give Kyle detailed instructions for the ear drops and the antibiotics—both verbally and on a Post-it.

I don’t see how any marriage between people who have small children can stay interesting when wives have to leave husbands instructions on Post-its.

When we get home, the girls clamor for Kyle’s attention, which is fine with me because then I can finally respond to Elijah.

What plans do you have for me?

Him: That’s for me to know. If you enjoyed last time, you’ll enjoy this

I’m in a work meeting and you’re making me wet

Him: A work meeting at 5? They need to go easier on my baby

That’s Ok . You always take my stress away

Kyle comes into the kitchen, Grace behind him, hanging on to the waistband of his sweatpants, Liv behind her, hands on Grace’s middle—a little train.

“Choo choo,” Kyle says with not enough gusto.

The girls giggle and tell him to take them around the house.

He gives me a look like Can you believe these kids?

He wants me to give him a similar look in return.

He wants me to bond with him over our offspring and their torturous demands.

We used to do this—lean on each other with parenting, vent about it to each other, commiserate.

We stopped doing that when I became a stay-at-home mom, when I stopped feeling like we were equal in any way, when I stopped having any compassion for his parenting fatigue.

At dinner, I review the ear infection medication instructions, and we talk about the plan for the weekend.

Kyle will be in charge of taking the girls to a birthday party for one of the neighborhood kids, who is turning four.

I cannot stand the kid-birthday-party circuit.

It’s like every mom is trying to one-up the others—the biggest bounce house, the most elaborate decorations, the cutest party favors.

Each party is a thousand-dollar Pinterest board explosion that puts pressure on all the moms (like me) who consider it more than enough to order pizza at Costco, get grocery store cupcakes, and pass out party hats.

Kyle has never before taken the girls to a birthday party.

This one has a tea party theme. He will want to poke his eyes out with a tea party spork.

It’s possible his boredom will be offset by the way the mothers in attendance will fawn over him: It’s so sweet of you to bring the girls!

Who fawns over the mothers? Or forget fawning. Who gives the mothers basic thanks?

Sometimes, when I daydream of divorce, I ponder Kyle’s next wife.

I think I would do a fantastic job selecting her.

There should be a dating app based on this concept— N ex t Love could be the name.

I would select a woman who would fawn over Kyle.

She would have to be someone with no career ambitions, someone passive and pretty in a girl-next-door way.

Ideally, she would have far fewer brain cells than me.

Not that I think I’m a genius, but I do think my critical thinking skills have gotten me into trouble with this whole marriage institution.

He needs someone who does not desire to dip beneath the surface of daily life, someone who garners her worth from supporting him.

There are women like this. I have encountered them at the park and at the birthday parties.

They do not aspire to more than wifedom and motherhood.

Or if they do, they have repressed that aspiration thoroughly.

They seem happy. Maybe they are happy, by their definitions.

Who am I to judge their definitions? Mine just happen to be different.

Arguably, I am unhappier because of my inability to repress and to accept a certain place in this life.

In a way, I envy them, as much as I know I can never be them.

“You’re still good with taking Friday off?” I ask Kyle.

This is an unusually good family dinner.

We are all eating the same thing—well, basically.

The girls have spaghetti noodles with butter, and Kyle and I are eating spaghetti with an arrabbiata sauce.

We are all eating breadsticks. It feels almost .

.. harmonious. Grace keeps stabbing Liv in the cheek with a breadstick, but Liv is laughing, so I can live with this.

“Yep. I’ve got Friday,” Kyle says.

I am driving up north early in the day on Friday because I have to go to the mortuary to meet with a woman named Carly who said during our phone conversation that she was looking forward to being there for me in my time of need.

I cringed. I wanted to tell her that she did not have to speak in this hushed, saccharine voice, that a normal voice would not offend my sensibilities and lead me to emotionally unravel.

I suppose these mortuary people go into any new-client situation tiptoeing, unsure of the level of devastation and the bereaved’s ability to talk about things like coffin selection.

I am devastated, of course, but I know I must accomplish these tasks—for Merry’s sake.

This is one instance when I am willing to repress for the common good.

“Mommy’s leaving again?” Grace says with her pouty face.

“I’m going to see Papa,” I tell her. “Remember?”

She nods solemnly. “Can we go? I want another sleepover with Merry.”

I hold my breath, waiting to see if she will say more, but she doesn’t.

“Another weekend, sweetie. I have some things to take care of up there,” I say. Then, redirecting: “Who wants ice cream?”

I leave Orange County at nine o’clock Friday morning, which is an hour later than I planned because of the usual household chaos. I get to Fitzgerald Mortuary in Daly City just in time for my four o’clock appointment with Carly, who is waiting for me in the lobby.

When greeting me, she puts a hand on my shoulder, a hand that says We are compassionate at Fitzgerald Mortuary .

In her other hand, she is holding a black folio case, which likely contains the paperwork we are going to review.

It’s all very professional, which I guess is what you want in a mortuary.

She leads me to a small room off the lobby with a gigantic circular wood table and four large chairs, big heavy things upholstered in burgundy leather.

She sits opposite me and places a folder on the table between us.

On the cover, an older woman is looking into the sky at a bright light.

It’s unclear if it’s the sun or a metaphor for impending death.

It’s a mystery—is she the dearly departed or the loved one left behind? We may never know.

“So I understand your father has CJD?” Carly says. “I’m so sorry. It’s such a terrible disease.”

“You’ve heard of it, then?”

“Fitzgerald is one of the largest mortuaries in the Bay Area. We’ve heard of almost everything.”

My mind wanders to consider the horrific nature of her job. She’s consoled people in the wake of myriad cancers, multivehicle crashes, sudden infant death syndrome, freak accidents, bullets to the head, stab wounds. I’m not sure how she seems so calm.

“I’m sure it’s a hard job,” I say.

“Not as hard as yours.”

I almost say “Oh, I don’t work,” but then realize she’s talking about the job I’m doing now, being here, making arrangements for my dad’s death, a truly surreal task.

She reviews all the services the mortuary provides—everything from ordering death certificates, publishing an obituary, and obtaining cremation permits (who knew?) to creating in memoriam pamphlets for a funeral service and making jewelry out of ashes.

There are brochures for each offering, a smattering of them.

“I understand you are thinking of cremation?”

I nod. Merry said that’s what he would want.

They had a conversation about it a while back.

Kyle and I have never talked about such things at all.

We are young enough to be in complete denial of our mortality.

In any case, I’m glad my dad would want cremation.

I’ve never liked the idea of a body being buried in the ground. It seems damp and dark and worm-ridden.

“We have a great selection of urns,” she says, pulling another brochure from her folio case. “Or you can order something online and bring it to us. We can also place the ashes in multiple urns for your mother or siblings or ...”

“Stepmom,” I say. “No siblings.”

“I understand,” she says. “It’s certainly hard to be doing all this on your own.”

I think of Grace and Liv sitting together at a table like this one day, perusing brochures while grieving Kyle or me. I’m glad they have each other.

“We also have a few options for the cremation box,” she says.

She shows me the options. The first is an ornate coffin and is priced at $1,100. The second is a slightly less ornate $600 coffin. And the third is a cardboard box that, inexplicably, costs $75. Must be special, death-appropriate cardboard.

“I’m a bit confused,” I say. “This box ... it just burns with him?”

This is possibly the strangest conversation I’ve ever had.

“Yes,” Carly says.

I can hear my dad’s laugh—so hearty and full that he starts coughing at the tail end of it, his body desperate for oxygen. Nikki Bear, you are not paying a thousand bucks for a box that will be set on fire.

“My dad would want the cardboard one.”

She nods, circling that option on her little menu sheet.

“Oh, before I forget, he’s going to be in a clinical study. They’ll be doing a brain autopsy. You guys can coordinate all that?”

“Of course. We can arrange for the necessary transfers to and from the autopsy facility and notify you when he’s back in our care.”

For the first time during this odd meeting, I am overcome with the grief that I told myself to leave in the car. There’s something about envisioning my dad’s body being shuttled to and fro that makes my chest tight.