Chapter 3, Odd Mom Out, by Sandy Day

At this point in the evening, my friends appear to be growing tired of entertaining each other with never-ending stories about their undeniably ordinary lives. One by one, they pick up their phones and begin to scroll. Photos of dogs and cats are flashed around the table.

I wish I’d thought to take a picture of the kitten I rescued earlier. It was so sweet how the poor little thing dove into the saucer of milk. I wonder if there’s a store open where I can buy a can of cat food on the way home? 

Photos of grown children with new babies begin to make the rounds to a chorus of oohs and coos. Becoming a grandmother isn’t the sign of impending doom it once was. I remember when the expected response was, “You can’t possibly be a grandmother! You’re too young!”

Moving along to vacations and travel photos, some women open a social media site that has dozens of photographs – their own, and other people’s. I don’t have social media thingies on my phone. I don’t even know how to get them. I just use my phone to…well…phone. And even then, only in an emergency, of which there has been none since I got it in January.

Debbie flashes a photo of Madison at me from across the table. “Tell us, Trudy! What is going on with Madison this summer?” 

In the picture, my daughter stands barefoot aboard a yacht in a tiny bikini, her broad smile gleaming, and her hair streaming in the wind. I’m puzzled that Debbie has a photo of my Madison on her phone, but I answer the question. “She took a summer job as a cook on a boat in Croatia.”

“Wow, that’s adventurous. Wasn’t she going to school for something?” 

“Culinary,” I answer, and inside, a wave of pride swells.

“Following in Mom’s footsteps?”

“Mm hm,” I nod, even though I know Madison wouldn’t describe it that way.

It’s nice to have something to brag about at the divorce party. My life isn’t a complete flop. No one else’s daughter is doing anything quite as exciting. And although I had little involvement in Madison’s summer job decision and didn’t actually even know about it until she asked me to pay for her plane ticket, I don’t let on. I welcome the brief minute of admiration and follow-up questions until someone asks: “When are you going to visit her?”

I wave my hands around non-committedly. “The bakery’s pretty busy right now.”

“But this is your chance to go to Europe. Aren’t you going to grab it?”

“Definitely,” I answer, nodding, doubt growing rapidly in my tummy. The thought of a seven-hour flight over the Atlantic Ocean unsettling me.

“I have a friend who just got back from Croatia!” pipes up a woman down the table with short hair and tattooed arms who I have yet to be introduced to. 

“Trudy, have you met Coco?” asks Sylvia. “She’s opening up right across from you.”

The tattooed Coco asks, “You’re Honeywell’s Baked Goods, right?”

I nod. “Yes, it was originally my grandfather’s, Alexander Honeywell.”

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