The draft could have been a snippet of a previous post, a random thought she had decided not to publish—anything, really. There was no real reason for me to feel nervous, but my hand was shaking as I clicked on the lone draft in the folder.
As I began to read, I understood why.
I want you to know this website isn’t a lie. It’s really my life. But it’s only the parts I’ve chosen to share with you. And I love sharing it. I truly do. Every time I write a post, I remember all that is so wonderful about family and friendship and the countless blessings God has given me. Sharing that with you is like a daily meditation in gratitude. And your comments make my days brighter. They make me feel that I have a bigger purpose.
But some of you have written here and elsewhere online to say that what I show you here makes you feel bad about yourself. And oh, how that hurts me—more than you may ever know, because it was never my intention to make it seem as though you, dear reader, weren’t enough.
You are more than enough.
But if you’re feeling lacking or sometimes wish you could run far away from the demands of being a woman in this world, know that I understand that, too. I may not convey it adequately, but I do feel that way sometimes. Most of the time, if I’m honest.
I don’t always deal with being overwhelmed and feeling inadequate the way I should, and maybe that’s why I don’t show you that side of my life. Maybe I’m not ready to fully face reality—not in the manner that some of you wish I would, even if you couldn’t possibly know what that might entail.
Know that I am making an effort to be braver.
I am trying to change.
I’m sorry to be vague, but I guess what I want you to know is that however you’re feeling, you’re not alone.
The woman passing you in the supermarket who’s dressed like she just stepped out of a magazine?
The old friend who sends you a holiday card featuring her three perfect children, her hot husband, and her hypoallergenic dog who never eats underwear?
Or the blogger whose life seems too good to be true?
Odds are, she feels a whole lot like you do.
So be gentle on her—and yourself.
With so much love,
xo, Jenny
By the time I was done reading, tears were spilling onto my lap. It wasn’t painkillers that killed Jenny—not truly. It was that she was afraid to admit anything was wrong.
It was an instinct I knew all too well.
I wiped my eyes and read the post again. Then I went downstairs to get Matt to show him what I had found.
“This should be her last post—not what I wrote,” I said once he was finished reading.
His eyes glinted with anger. “Absolutely not.”
“But why? Don’t you think if she had known how her life would end, she would have wanted this to be published? You know Jenny would have wanted to help other women, even if she couldn’t help herself.”
“What she would have wanted was to be alive,” he said.
Yes, well, that was one thing we could agree on.
“I won’t even consider it,” he added, “so please don’t ask again.”
My sorrow was starting to take a sharp edge. “Did you even read what she said?”
“Of course I read it, and anyone with one eye can see what she’s really saying. People will know what happened.”
I shook my head. “I disagree—she could have been talking about any issue. The point isn’t what she was struggling with. It was that she was struggling.”
“If the point isn’t her pill problem, then why bother putting this up? It doesn’t even say she died.”
“We can add that at the end,” I said.
“Then we’re back to this,” he muttered.
I leaned against the wall, regarding him. “If by this you mean doing the right thing, then yes.”
Matt stood from her desk and flipped the laptop closed. I wanted to dash past him and copy Jenny’s letter to send to myself. If he wouldn’t publish it, I wanted to at least preserve it so that one day, when she was ready, Cecily could read her mother’s own words about what she was going through.
“Penelope,” he said, “you were my wife’s best friend, and believe me, I am not downplaying your grief or your place in her life. But this is not your call to make, and I need you to respect that.”
“I do respect that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you for permission. But, Matt—” I waited for Jenny’s voice, maybe hoping she would tell me to be brave, but it didn’t come. “I’m tired of lying,” I said. “It isn’t right.”
“I’m not asking you to lie . I’m asking you not to overshare.”
I shook my head sadly. “One day Cecily will learn the truth. You know that, right? What will you tell her then? That you continued to make the same mistake Jenny made by pretending everything was fine?”
Matt startled. “Good Lord, Penelope. That’s not like you. Maybe you should see a therapist, too.”
“Probably,” I admitted. “But you’re wrong—this is like me. If Jenny were here, she would have fought for what’s best for her daughter. But since she’s not, I will. I’m sorry you and I can’t seem to see eye-to-eye these days, but I’m not going to let the fear of losing Cecily keep me from speaking up. My post and Jenny’s are in the drafts folder now; you can publish whatever you want.” I looked at him one more time. “But you don’t actually need my input, Matt—you already know what you should do. You and Jenny may have had your troubles, but she would not have chosen to spend her life with a man who wouldn’t do right by his daughter.”
TWENTY-NINE
“That’s a nice shirt on you,” I said to Sanjay as he put on a pale-blue button-down he’d purchased for his first day of work.
He looked down at himself. “It beats scrubs.”
My conversation with Matt was still weighing on me, but I managed a laugh. “I hope so. Thank you for doing this.”
“Don’t thank me. Believe it or not, I’m excited. I think it’s going to be a good place to work, and I’ll still spend most of my day writing.”
“I’m happy to see you happy,” I said.
He grinned at me. “How could I not be after last night?” We’d made love again for the first time since returning from New York. I hadn’t been expecting much, since we were back home and faced with all the usual stressors. But maybe the key to good sex was low expectations, because it had been even better than our best vacation encounter.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” I warned, and he laughed.
When we went downstairs, Miles was sitting at the table, dressed in his pajamas. He was watching us with a worried expression on his face.
“Sweetie, what is it?” I asked.
His bottom lip popped out. “If Daddy’s working away from home, who will get me if I’m sick?” The kids had started school the day before, as had Cecily. I’d hoped to catch Matt at drop-off that morning, but he had hustled in the opposite direction before I could even manage a wave.
“Do you feel sick?” I asked Miles.
“No.”
“Good. But if you did get sick, the school has Daddy’s cell phone number and mine, too. He can leave. I can also come get you, you know.”
Miles pushed his empty cereal bowl toward the center of the table. “Cookie told Grandpa Arjun that you’re glued to your desk.”
“She said that, did she?” I looked at Sanjay, who made an exaggerated grimace. “I hope you know that’s not true.”
“How could Mommy work if she was stuck to her desk?” said Stevie, looking up from a book.
“I’m pretty sure Cookie was implying that Mommy works too much,” I told them. “But I’ve been working less these days.”
“Is that why Daddy’s going to work now?” said Stevie.
“No,” I said at the same time Sanjay said, “Yes.”
“Sort of,” I conceded. “But you’re big kids now. You’re in school all day, and things are changing a little for our family.”
“Like things changed for Cecily?” said Miles quietly.
His comment shredded me. “No, sweetheart, not at all like that,” I told him. “I can’t promise nothing bad will ever happen to Mommy or Daddy, but I don’t think you need to worry about us dying.” I would have to find some wood to knock on, and maybe say a prayer before crossing the street. All the same, there was no need to prime my children to be paranoid—not when I was perfectly happy to fret for all of us. “Listen, you two, it’s Daddy’s first day and we all need to get moving. We’ll talk more about this later, okay?”
Miles’ worries were fast forgotten. “Since it’s Daddy’s first day, can we get ice cream tonight?” he said, giving me his best puppy-dog eyes.
“Please?” Stevie chimed in. “Because you went to New York and didn’t even bring us a gift?”
“I never promised to bring gifts, but be good this morning and we’ll think about it, okay?”
I’d forgotten that translated as “yes,” and they nearly knocked me over hugging me. “You enormous children,” I said, kissing each of their heads. “It’s a good thing I love you way too much.”
“What about your husband?” said Sanjay with mock indignation.
I walked over and kissed him. “I love you the exact right amount,” I said. “Break a leg today.”
When I arrived at work, I opened an email Yolanda had sent me at six that morning. She wanted me to come to her office as soon as I got in, which was completely nerve-wracking. Wasn’t that what happened to people who were about to be fired? I told myself to stay cool, but my stomach knotted at the thought of losing my job the same day my husband started his. We still had no idea if his job would work out, and his salary alone couldn’t support us.