“Thank you so much for coming to the Helen Williams School today. I hope you had a great time. Do you want a sweatshirt?”

The question from the head of the school is directed to Ben, but Roxy’s eyes light up too.

“I would love a sweatshirt,” Ben says.

My gaze drifts to Roxy, and I jerk my head toward her, letting the school director know silently that the redhead by my side wants a souvenir too.

“Would you like a sweatshirt, Roxy?” the Sandra Bullock look-alike named Judy Smith asks.

Roxy beams. “Honestly, I’ve never turned down a good sweatshirt.”

Judy smiles. “At the end of the day, nothing beats pulling on yoga pants and a sweatshirt.”

“Truth,” Roxy says as the woman swivels around and grabs some school sweatshirts from a shelf in the main office. She hands a kid-size one to Ben and a larger one to Roxy.

“Would you like one too, Miles?”

I wave her off. “I'm passing, but that’s only on account of wanting to stave off the possibility that the three of us turn up somewhere in matching sweatshirts. You have no idea how much mockery I would endure from my two older brothers.”

Judy holds up her hand. “I have two older sisters and know exactly what you mean."

Ben lifts his chin proudly. “I’m the oldest. I don’t have any younger brothers or sisters, but I’m still the oldest brother.”

“Do you want to have any siblings?" the school director asks.

Ben shrugs. “I’m good either way. It really doesn't matter because I'll always be the oldest. And that means I can wear my sweatshirt whenever I want.” Except it’s May and it’s warm outside, so he ties the arms around his waist and then extends a hand. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Smith. I appreciate the tour."

A sunburst of fatherly pride suffuses me. I’ve worked hard to make sure Ben is always polite, and I love that it’s ingrained in him now.

“The pleasure was all mine, and you can call me Judy.”

“Thank you, Judy,” Ben replies.

Judy escorts us out, showing us the playground. There are no whispers this time, no behind-my-back voices. And it’s not because I’m with a woman. It's because I have a feeling the headmaster isn’t a gossipy twit.

As we walk along the tree-lined street on the Upper East Side, I ask Ben what he thought of the school.

“I liked it. They had good snacks. Did you hear they have snack time every single morning for kindergarteners? I really like snacks, Daddy.”

“Snack time is super important,” Roxy says. “I actually think snack is the most important meal of the day."

I laugh. “Is snack a meal?”

She nods vehemently. “It should be. After all, what's better than snacks? Puppies, and possibly sunshine. But that would be it. Don’t you think snacks are awesome, Ben?”

“I think snacks are the best thing, and I want to go to that school.”

I glance at Roxy. Her opinion on this topic matters to me, and I’m not entirely sure what to make of that except she matters to me and I respect the hell out of her. Perhaps that’s why I want to know what she thinks of Ben’s school choices. “What did you think of the school, Roxy?”

“I thought it was great. Lots of opportunities for creative expression, but also a focus on the basic building blocks. Plus, she didn’t suck up to you. She treated you like anyone else.”

A rush of warmth hits my chest. I’m glad she feels the same, and I’m not quite ready to process why it makes me feel good to be on the same page with her. “I agree.” I turn to my son. “So it’s a yes, Ben?”

He nods. “It’s a yes, Daddy.”

I raise my arms in victory. “Done.”

Ben cheers, and I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful to have found a place for him. As he wanders ahead of us, I say to Roxy, “The other thing I like is that she never once asked who you were. She didn’t make any assumptions or try to call you Mrs. Hart or ask if you were his mom or my girlfriend.”

Roxy smiles. “She went with the flow, and it takes a lot of self-control not to ask busybody questions.”

Roxy’s purse trills, and she dips her hand inside, grabs her phone, and scans the screen. “Oh,” she says, a little surprised. “My doctor’s office.”

She answers, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I do everything possible to listen to every word. Because I’m a nosy fucker.

“Sure. End of next week is fine. I’ll be there,” she says.

She ends the call and looks to me, her expression somber. “That was the doctor’s office with my test results. They said I’m having a cat.”

I play along, feigning seriousness. “Is it a girl cat or a boy cat?”

She sighs. “Unfortunately, they couldn’t tell. But they said they can look next week at my twenty-week ultrasound.”

“Are you going to find out if it’s a tomcat or a . . . what’s a female cat called? Wait, don’t tell me. You can’t decide because you were so excited about finding out the species of the baby.”

She hums. “True. I was pretty much bouncing in my seat till I learned whether I was having a cat, dog, or aardvark. I was hoping for a puppy since I have two cats, but you take what you can get.”

“Plus, I hear aardvarks are tough to raise, but also difficult to tell the gender of. Hopefully, you’ll have an ultrasound technician like Judy, who’s chill about everything.”

She laughs. “Can you imagine if Judy were my ultrasound tech? And you came with me? She’d be like, ‘Nice to meet you . . . um . . . Miles.’ And she’d have to spend the whole appointment with her wand on my belly, never asking if you were the dad or the boyfriend or the cat’s sperm donor.”

Just like that, an idea sparks, and it’s one I don’t want to let go of. It’s not about cats or sperm donors. It’s about something else entirely, and I don’t noodle on it or turn it over a million times. I just go for it. “Let’s test it at your appointment next week.”

She furrows her brow. “I’m pretty sure Judy doesn’t moonlight as an ultrasound tech.”

I laugh. “I know. But let’s test your theory. Like a social experiment. I can go with you, and we’ll see what happens if we don't say who I am and let them guess."

She stops in her tracks, and for several seconds I worry that I’ve overstepped my role. That I’ve taken this whole “plus-one” thing too far. I try to backtrack because I hate the thought of Roxy feeling uncomfortable. “You’re probably going with your mom, though, or Mackenzie or something.”

She shakes her head. “I was going alone. Like I’ve gone to every appointment. I’d love to have you there,” she says softly then smiles. “You know, as a social experiment.”

As we walk, the social experiment aspect of it is far less compelling to me than being there for her.

That’s the real reason I invited myself.

And that’s the reason I’m going to have to deal with sooner or later.