The Mom Who Has It All

Carrie balanced a travel mug between her knees while attempting to apply mascara in the rearview mirror, which was how she discovered that one eye could look glamorous and the other could look legally blind.

“Stop moving,” Megan said from the passenger seat.

“I’m not moving.”

“The car is moving.”

“We’re parked.”

“You’re parked in the fire lane.”

Carrie glanced through the windshield. Maplewood Elementary’s drop-off lane had already become a slow-moving parade of minivans, backpacks, and mothers pretending not to judge one another’s outerwear. A crossing guard pointed at her with the weary authority of someone who had seen this exact mistake seventeen times before breakfast.

Carrie eased the car forward. Her coffee sloshed against the lid.

“See?” Megan said. “This is why Vanessa does everything at home.”

Carrie looked at her.

Megan was wearing leggings, a sweatshirt with a small smear of peanut butter on the sleeve, and one of the fuzzy socks Carrie recognized from her own laundry. Her hair had been twisted into a knot that suggested either confidence or surrender.

“She doesn’t do everything at home,” Carrie said. “She wakes up early.”

“She wakes up early because she has no soul.”

“Vanessa has a soul.”

“Then it’s been professionally steamed.”

Carrie pulled into the next space, beside a recycling bin overflowing with crumpled permission slips and half-eaten granola bars. She had spent the morning trying to reproduce Vanessa’s effortless routine after watching Vanessa glide into school the day before in white trousers, white blouse, and white shoes. Not a wrinkle. Not a crumb. Not even the faint gray thumbprint left by a child who had apparently been raised by raccoons.

Carrie had set her alarm for five-thirty. She had laid out a white shirt, white jeans, and cream-colored flats. She had portioned fruit into little containers and packed lunches without once shouting, “Who put a marker in the freezer?”

At five forty-seven, her youngest had climbed into bed carrying a damp stuffed dinosaur.

At six-ten, the dishwasher had begun making a noise like a helicopter landing inside the kitchen.

At six-twenty, Carrie had burned the toast while attempting a sleek ponytail and then forgotten where she put the hairbrush because she had been holding it the entire time.

Still, she had arrived at the car with her dignity mostly intact. Her shirt was clean. Her makeup was nearly symmetrical. Her coffee was hot.

This was already more than Vanessa had ever had to overcome, apparently.

Megan opened her door. “Come on. We have three minutes before the children start wandering into traffic.”

Carrie reached for her coffee. “I’m fine.”

“You’re holding mascara.”

Carrie looked down. The mascara wand was still in her hand.

“That’s intentional,” she said.

“For what?”

“Drama.”

She capped it, tucked it into her purse, and stepped out of the car. The morning air smelled of wet pavement, exhaust, and the sweet cinnamon scent of something being sold at the school fundraiser despite it being eight fifteen in the morning. Around them, children streamed toward the entrance with lunch boxes swinging from their arms. One boy dragged a backpack so heavy it left a dark line through the damp grit.

Carrie smoothed her shirt.

The fabric was spotless. The white jeans were spotless. Her flats were only lightly threatened by a puddle.

Across the lot, Vanessa appeared.

She did not walk so much as arrive. Her platinum-blonde hair fell in a polished wave over one shoulder. Her makeup looked assembled by a small team of professionals. Her white blouse had not merely been ironed; it had been emotionally supported. Her nails flashed pale pink as she adjusted the strap of her daughter’s backpack.

Carrie watched Vanessa bend to kiss the child goodbye without touching the pavement, the car, the backpack, or any substance known to stain.

Megan leaned closer. “I hate her.”

“You said she had a soul.”

“I hate that too.”

Carrie tucked her chin. “I can look like that.”

Megan’s gaze traveled from Carrie’s uneven ponytail to her flats, one of which had a faint smear of something green near the heel.

“Like what? A woman who has never cleaned yogurt off a ceiling?”

“Exactly.”

“Vanessa is wearing white.”

“So am I.”

“Your shirt is currently being held together by a safety pin.”

Carrie glanced down. The safety pin was visible just beneath her collarbone, gleaming like a tiny emergency siren.

“It’s fashion,” she said.

“It’s a cry for help.”

Before Carrie could answer, her son shouted from somewhere behind them, “Mom! The dog ate my homework!”

“He doesn’t have a dog,” Carrie said.

Megan turned. “That’s your child.”

He stood beside the school sign holding a crumpled worksheet and pointing at a golden retriever being walked along the sidewalk by an elderly man.

Carrie closed her eyes for half a second. “That dog did not eat your homework.”

“He looked like he wanted to.”

“Inside. Now.”

The boy ran toward the entrance....