Page 41 of Woman on the Verge

“I don’t want milk either,” Liv said.

I was torn between praising her for using a complete sentence and chastising both of them for their disobedience.

“Eat your cereal. With the milk,” I said, employing my cave-people strategy.

Liv cooperated.

My phone buzzed with a text from Merry:

Just got to the hospital. The doctor wants to talk to us later about all the results.

Grace started whining about the milk again, so I gave her the iPad. That quieted her, and she began to just pick out the marshmallows from the cereal, which I supposed was better than nothing. Or not.

Ok. What time?

I don’t know. You know how these doctors are. They come when they please.

Ok. Then just call me when it’s time

She sent me a thumbs-up emoji.

How’s Dad?

The same. He says hello.

Tell him I love him

She sent me another thumbs-up emoji.

I took the girls to the park after breakfast because Kyle’s voice was booming on his calls and it was making me want to punch a wall. It’s also possible that his voice was at its normally loud volume but my resentment had made me more sensitive to it. This is all to say that I needed to get out of the house.

There was one other mom at the park, wearing a sweatshirt that saidi run a tight shipwreck. I liked her until I saw her perfectly coiffed little girls, about the same age as mine, dressed in matching pink dresses. Shipwreck, my ass. Her girls ran over to her for a snack of “cheese” puffs made out of chickpeas. Up close I could see that the ends of their hair were most definitely curled. I tried to imagine Grace and Liv sitting still for such a procedure. It would never happen. Someone would end up with a third-degree burn.

“Your daughters have beautiful hair,” I said.

Sometimes, I try to play nice. Even though I have nothing in common with them, I want them to accept me. It’s complicated.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, beaming with pride.

“My daughters won’t let me come near them with a brush.”

Which was obvious. Grace’s hair almost always resembles Gary Busey’s in that infamous mug shot. The last time I took her for a haircut, they charged me an extra twenty-five dollars for “the severity of her tangles.” Liv, thankfully, has shorter, wispier hair with less potential for dishevelment.

“Well, we have a rule that we don’t compromise health or hygiene,” the shipwreck-my-ass mother said.

Health or hygiene? Was beautifully done hair hygienic? Was she calling me unhygienic? Kyle did sometimes refer to Grace’s hair as a vermin’s nest.

“Rules? What are those?”

I was being sarcastic, but she didn’t laugh. It wasn’t until I became a mom that I realized how many people are not My People. There was another mom a few weeks before this who I’d talked with aboutthe popularity of unicorns, and she’d said, “Have you read thatHow to Catch a Unicornbook? I bought it because it’s aNew York Timesbestseller, butthe language! I had to return it.” When I inquired about the offensive language, she whispered, “Fart.The book has the wordfart,” and I knew we could never, ever, ever be friends.

My phone rang, and for once I was grateful for that because it gave me an excuse to turn away from this obnoxious woman. My relief was temporary because I saw the call was from Merry.

“The doctor is here,” she said.

I checked to make sure the girls were happily playing—they were—and walked to a nearby bench. I knew I’d need to sit for this, no matter the news.

“So we’ve got all the results in,” the doctor began. I assumed it was Dr. Lee.