“No, but that’s okay. And I enjoy having a bit of alone time. Besides, it’s only one night a week. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Speaking of Marge, she thinks I’m a doormat.”

“She’s just worried about you,” Liz said. With long brown hair, oval eyes the color of coffee, and an easygoing demeanor, she was more the class secretary type than head cheerleader type, but I’d always thought that made her even more attractive. “She knows you’re under a lot of pressure and she worries about you. How’s Vivian these days?”

“She’s okay, but she’s feeling the pressure, too. I just want her to be happy with me.”

“Hmmm.”

“That’s it?”

“What else am I supposed to say?’

“I don’t know. Challenge me? Give me advice?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because, among other things, you’re trained as a counselor.”

“You’re not my patient. But even then, I’m not sure I could help.”

“Why not?”

“Because counseling isn’t about changing someone else. It’s about trying to change yourself.”

On our way to the car, I held London’s hand.

“Don’t tell Mommy I had two cupcakes, okay?”

“Why?

“Because it’s not good for me and I don’t want her to be sad.”

“Okay,” she said. “I won’t. I promise.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

London and I returned at six to an empty house with a batch of vanilla cupcakes.

When I texted Vivian, asking where she was, she replied Still have a couple of things to do – will be home in a little while. It felt annoyingly cryptic, but before I could text again, London was tugging on my sleeve and leading me toward the pink three-story Barbie Dreamhouse she’d stationed in the corner of the living room.

London adored Barbie, was over the moon for Barbie. She had seven of them, two pink Barbie convertibles, and a plastic tub filled with more outfits than a fully stocked department store. That every doll had the same name seemed not to matter to London at all; what fascinated me even more was that every time Barbie moved from one room in the pink three-story Dreamhouse to another or changed activities, London believed that a wardrobe change was imperative. This occurred roughly every thirty-five seconds, and it went without saying was that the only thing that London enjoyed more than changing Barbie’s wardrobe was having Dad do it for her.

For the next hour and a half, I spent four full days changing Barbie’s outfits, one right after the other.

If that doesn’t make sense, I have to admit that it didn’t make much sense to me either. It probably has something to do with the theory of relativity – time being relative and all that – but London didn’t seem to care whether I was bored or not as long as I kept the outfits a-changing. Nor did she seem to care whether I understood her reasoning as to the particular outfit she wanted. Somewhere around the three-day mark on that late afternoon, I remember reaching for a green pair of pants when London shook her head.

“No, Daddy! I told you that she needs to wear yellow pants when she’s in the kitchen.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s in the kitchen.”

Oh.

Eventually, I heard Vivian’s SUV pull into the drive. Unlike my Prius, it got horrible gas mileage, but it was large, safe, and Vivian had insisted she’d never drive a minivan, even though it was far more economical.

“Your mom is home, sweetheart,” I offered, expelling a sigh of relief as London raced for the door. As soon as she opened it, I heard her call out “Mommy!” I straightened up the play area before following her. By the time I reached the front steps, Vivian was already holding London, the rear hatch open, and I did a quick double take. Her hair, I saw, was noticeably shorter, now shoulder length and closer in style to what it had been when I’d first met her.

She smiled up at me, squinting in the waning summer sunlight. “Hey hon!” she called out. “Would you mind grabbing some of the bags?”

I descended the steps, listening as London chattered away, telling Vivian about her day. When I was close, Vivian lowered London to the ground. By her expression, I knew she was waiting for a reaction.

“Wow,” I said, offering her a quick kiss. “This brings back memories.”

“You like?” she asked.

“You look beautiful. But how you did you pull this off on Sunday? Where on earth would even be open?”

“There’s a salon downtown that offers Sunday appointments. I’ve heard great things about one of the hairdressers there and I decided to give her a try.”

Why she hadn’t mentioned it that morning, I had no idea. She’d also, I noticed, gotten a manicure, and hadn’t mentioned that either.

“I love it, too, Mommy,” London said, breaking into my thoughts.

“Thanks, sweetie,” she said.

“I made cupcakes at Nana’s today.”

“You did, huh?”

“And they’re so good, Daddy had two of them.”

“Really?”

My daughter nodded, obviously forgetting all about her promise to me. “And Papa had four!”

“They must be delicious.” Vivian smiled. She reached into the car, pulling out a couple of the lighter bags. “Would you mind being a helper with the groceries?”