See you in May

At 9:13 p.m., I told my husband I wanted everyone to disappear. Not forever. I didn’t say forever.

I was standing barefoot in the kitchen, scraping burnt breadcrumbs from my stainless steel pan into the sink while my husband was clearing the dinner table. Late night tonight. Cold for January—even for us here in Florida.

My one-and-a-half-year-old was terrorizing the living room—tossing pillows, pulling on the throw blankets, losing the remote. He should’ve been in bed by 8:30. Now it was 9:16.

My four-year-old had already gotten out of bed three times. For water. Bathroom. Something under his bed. Hearing his little brother rummage in the living room. And in between all that, he tossed his toy cars down the stairs. Then, of course, he needed to tell me something important. Great whites are the scariest shark in the ocean. And nineteen more sleeps until his birthday. He'd been counting since New Year's.

“You’re so smart,” I said.

“Did you know that, Mom?”

"Yes."

"How?"

"I just do."

"But how do you know?"

"I don't know, baby."

"But—"

"Come on. Time for bed. Now."

I'd said it harder than I meant to. His little face changed. That was the worst part of being a mom. Not the yelling or the diapers or finding half-chewed apple slices squashed into your carpet. It was watching their faces change because of you.

My husband walked into the kitchen carrying the baby against his chest.

"This one is just not going down."

"I can hear that."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

He looked at the chicken cutlets in the garbage.

"Did you eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't eaten since—"

"I said I'm not hungry."

The baby reached for me but I stepped backward. Instinctively. His hand stayed suspended between us, five tiny fingers opening and closing. My husband noticed. I noticed him noticing.

"I just need one night," I said.

"Okay."

"One night where nobody touches me. Nobody cries for me. Nobody asks me where something is while they're standing directly in front of it."

He smiled a little. Wrong move.

"Don't." I pushed him away. “I need one night to just think. Finish a god damn thought.”

"I'm literally standing here, listening to you."

"I want one day where nobody needs me."

His smile disappeared when I said that.

Upstairs, our older son called, "Mama?"

I closed my eyes, running my hands through my hair.

"Mama?"

My husband shifted the baby higher on his shoulder.

"I'll get him."

“It’s fine. I’ll do it.”

I stood in the doorway with my arms crossed.

“Mom, what do we always say?”

“I love you no matter what.”

“And! I’ll see you when I wake up!”

I blew him a kiss and closed the door.

Downstairs I was alone in the kitchen, surrounded by evidence that a happy family lived there. Two high chairs. Sippy cups drying beside the sink. A tiny magnet block underneath the island. A half-colored dinosaur on the counter. Forest animals stuck to the refrigerator. And M A M A. One of the M's was upside down.

I left it that way.

The first thing I noticed the next morning was that nobody had woken me. 9:26 a.m. I don’t remember the last time I slept in. My husband’s side of the bed was made up. I picked up my phone. No missed calls. I got out of bed, looked in the mirror. My stomach was flatter. Sunlight trickled through our bedroom windows. The room smells like fresh gardenias.

I couldn’t hear anything downstairs either. Nothing.

I kept listening. Silence. Not quiet. Silence. There's a difference when you're a mom. Quiet means things are alright—kids are occupied with a game. Silence means get your ass down there immediately.

Hello? Nothing.

I walked into the hallway. The baby's door was open. I could see straight into the room. And I stopped. Where’s the crib? I rushed to the door. There was a desk. A black leather chair. My laptop. My pilates equipment in the corner where the changing table should’ve been.

I actually laughed, just once, this strange little sound.

No. I backed away. Wrong room. Obviously. Except it wasn't. I turned toward my older son's bedroom now. The white door was closed. I pushed it open. Queen bed. White duvet. Two decorative pillows I'd never bought. A framed photograph of Greece hung above the headboard. No. I opened the closet. Empty hangers. Extra blankets. A suitcase.

“Stefan?”

I checked his bathroom.

“Stefan?”

The playroom. But there wasn't a playroom. There was a guest room. We didn't have a guest room. Not anymore. We had turned it into a playroom when Stefan started walking.

My chest tightened.

"Stefan!"

I ran downstairs into an immaculate kitchen. Not clean like someone had scrubbed it down. Clean like children had never existed inside it. No high chairs. No plastic bowls. No magnetic alphabet. I opened the refrigerator. Wine. Sparkling water. Eggs. A glass bowl of berries. None of Stefan’s favorite lemon yogurt. No apple juice for the little one.

I slammed the refrigerator shut. My husband walked through the garage door holding two coffees.

"Morning."

"Where is everyone?"

He stopped.

"Everyone who?"

"The boys."

He stared at me.

"You’re funny."

"Where are the boys, Theo?"

His expression turned.

"Baby? Are you good?”

"Don't baby me. Where are they?"

"What boys?"

My stomach dropped into the lowest pit.

"Our fuckin’ kids."

He didn't move.

"Stefan. And the baby—Savo. Where are they?"

He put the coffees down.

"Anna. You’re freaking me out. Is this a joke?"

"Where are my kids?"

"We don’t have kids."

Apparently, I was still thirty-three, married for eight years, living in the same house in Palm Beach. My mom was still alive. My husband’s mom was still alive. My sister lived a half hour away in a beautiful equestrian community more west of us. Everything was where it should be. Except them.

I searched my phone. Photographs of us in Greece. On the beach. My sister’s wedding in Greenport. Christmas photos where my hair was so blonde and thick. My 30th birthday. Where’s Stefan? He would’ve been one here. Steak dinners. Beach trips in Miami wearing my teal bikini, my body impossibly perfect. A photo in Montenegro, me drinking champagne on a boat when Stefan should’ve been six months old there.

I scrolled up further and nearly dropped the phone. Stefan. Chocolate ice cream around his mouth, his fourth birthday.

Then I saw the brunette crouched beside him. My sister. I swiped through the rest. Stefan at her beach house, her hand in his. Stefan asleep on her couch, her husband carrying him. Stefan in a hospital blanket, my sister crying, holding him against her chest. What the fu—

I threw the phone.

My husband picked it up.

"What the hell is happening?"

"That’s our son."

"What?"

"That’s my Stefan!"

"That’s your nephew, Anna."

“No.”

“Yes. Are you okay?”

“I gave birth to him.”

My husband stared at me.

“Anna—

“I was there.”

"I know you were there."

But he didn’t understand. How could he? I remembered the warm water gripping my body, the heavy pressure forcing me to breathe deep while I held onto the bathtub. I can’t do this anymore. Then someone telling me I already was, my husband holding a fresh coconut to my lips, one he’d chopped down off our tree. I remembered reaching into that water and picking up the most beautiful thing in the world.

Warm. Slippery. Furious. Mine.

"You were at the hospital Anna," my husband said carefully. "When your sister had him."

I slapped him. I don’t know why. I mean, I do, but I’ve never lashed out like that before. My sister had him. Is he fucking serious right now?

I didn’t believe him.

He made me lie down. I woke up at noon and he said, get dressed.

"For what?"

He watched me carefully now, like any sudden movement might throw me back into that delusional spiral from earlier.

“For your sister’s.”

“What? I’m not going there. I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s Stefan’s birthday.”

I glared at him ready to burn the room down.

"What did you say?"

“The party, Anna.”

“What month is it?”

He didn’t answer me, so I grabbed my phone. January. My hands went numb. "Stefan’s birthday is today."

“I know.”

“No, I mean today. January 24.”

"What are you talking about Anna?"

I looked back at my phone. January 24. "What's today's date?"

He picked up his phone. “It’s May 24.” He showed me the calendar.

MAY 24. STEFAN’S 4TH BIRTHDAY.

"No." I showed him. “Look. January”

He stared at my screen, then laughed.

"Your phone is screwed up. Can you get ready please?”



Outside, sunlight burned against my shoulders. Florida didn’t offer much help determining the seasons. January could impersonate May. May could blend in with January. Palm trees were useless witnesses. But I knew what month it was. My son was born in January.

Then I noticed the gift in the backseat, tied with a blue ribbon in white wrapping paper. A little card taped to the top.

HAPPY 4TH BIRTHDAY, STEFAN.

It was my handwriting.

We arrived. My sister's house was full of balloons—blue, white, gold. The exact colors I’d have used. I stood in the doorway while life moved around me. People who knew me. Family who hugged me. People who seemed completely unconcerned that the calendar had changed five months between my house and my sister’s.

Then I heard that little voice.

“Mom!”

I turned. Stefan ran across the living room. For one beautiful second, I opened my arms. He ran right past me, crashing into my sister crouched behind me.

"Mom, look!" She kissed the side of his head.

“What is it?”

He showed her a plastic shark.

I couldn't breathe. He had the little scar above his eyebrow. He got it when he was two. He’d been jumping off the couch after I told him to stop. He fell against the coffee table. No stitches. I knew, because he was terrified of even putting a bandaid over it.

"Hey, Auntie."

I looked down to his brown eyes, smiling at me. Auntie.

"Give her a hug,” and he hugged me because my sister told him to. His head reached the same spot against my thighs. I bent down. His scent wasn’t our woody, citrus shampoo. He smelled like sea breeze.

Later, I found the baby—my baby—walking behind my sister through the kitchen. I spotted the birthmark on his knee. She lifted him up into his highchair and gave him a banana.

“He likes them cut into slices.”

My sister turned to me. “How do you know that?” I took the banana and sliced it for him.

But my sister knew it all too. She let him hold his own fork. She wiped his little mouth when he was getting too messy. She caught him by the back of his shirt before he fell off his highchair without even looking. She was good at being a mom. She was calm. And patient. And happy.

I watched her mothering my kids better than I had the night before. I sat down in a lonely arm chair in the corner. I took a sip of my white wine. Then another. Still chilly. No one interrupted me. Waves of something ugly moved through me. It wasn’t jealousy. It was something worse. Relief. For one moment—one disgusting, unforgivable moment—seeing them all together, I thought: they’re okay without me.

And then it all came back—what I’d wished for. One day where nobody needed me. I’d gotten the message loud and clear.

We stayed until dark. We all sang Happy Birthday. Stefan blew out the candles on his shark cake. I didn’t sing. How could I, with a lump so big in the back of my throat.

“Are you okay?” My sister asked me after.

“Just tired.”

“You?” She laughed. “From what?”

I glared at her. I know she didn’t mean anything by it. It just made me feel worse.

When we left, Stefan hugged my husband first. Then me.

“Happy birthday,” I whispered to him.

“It’s not my birthday.”

I pulled back.

"What?"

“My birthday is when it’s chilly.”

Nobody was paying attention to us. My husband already made his way to the car.

“Stefan?”

He leaned close to my ear.

"See you when I wake up."

My body turned to ice. He ran back to his mother.

It’s 3:14 a.m. I woke to crying. I was crying. I sat upright in my bed, in our dark bedroom with my husband beside me.

I ran barefoot down the hall, past the closed door of my office—the baby’s room. And there he was. A little body twisted beneath a blanket. My baby. In his crib. There was the changing table. The diapers. His stuffed lamb. I lifted him so quickly he cried harder.

I’m sorry. I pressed my face into his neck, taking in his scent of vanilla and coconut. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

My husband appeared in the doorway behind me.

“What happened?”

I couldn’t answer him.

Across the hall, another door opened. Stefan stood there rubbing his eyes.

"Mom?"

Tears rolled down my face. Stefan looked terrified. I put the baby into my husband's arms and dropped to my knees.

"Come here."

Stefan didn't move.

"Baby, come here."

He walked toward me. I wrapped my arms around him. There he was. He squirmed.

"Too tight."

I loosened my grip.

"Sorry."

"Why are you crying?"

"Bad dream."

"Was there a shark?"

The next morning was January twenty-fourth. Stefan’s real birthday.

The house was loud again. Cartoons. The baby tossing Cheerios on the floor. My husband couldn’t find his keys. Stefan asked me thirty something questions before I’d finished my coffee. Now the baby threw his toast onto the floor, smearing jelly on his cheeks.

I loved every unbearable second of it.

Theo picked something up from the counter. An invitation. My sister was having a party at her house. May 24.

I hadn't seen it before. He flipped it over.

"Why did you write Stefan’s name on this?"

I stopped. What?

He handed it to me. Across the back, in black ink, was my handwriting. I knew every detail—how I curve the S, then drag the end of his N, underlining his full name.

HAPPY 4TH BIRTHDAY, STEFAN.

Underneath, in a smaller font, was something else. I turned the card toward the window.

See you in May.

Behind me, Stefan laughed. He was on the floor, building something with magnetic letters.

I turned. Four letters stood in a crooked line.

M.

A.

M.

A.

One of the M’s was upside down.