By J.S. Kapral

My children could never play in your living room. Your white couch would be covered in red juice and blue crayon and runny, clumpy shit in a matter of minutes. The sharp edges of your coffee table would cut flushed foreheads and sticky fingers. Thick books and artsy figurines and travel photos are just waiting to be pulled down from your bookshelves with a loud crash, sending me flying into the room, heart racing, hoping for a bruise instead of a trip to the E.R.

I walk across your refinished hardwood floors that gleam with scratches meant to show character. This is how you live. You, who smiles at me casually from across your yard, never bothering to cross, waltzing in and out of your house at all hours of the day, uninhibited by bedtimes and daycare schedules. You, who disables my brain when we talk. My tongue only capable of piecing together stories about my children, sprinkled with a string of profanity. Now my tongue is unfastened. I want to scream into your empty living room, raving at you for your figurines and good reading habits and freedom.

I take a deep breath and look around. Everything appears in order, as in order as you expect things, anyway. Your door, wide open when I walked in, must be ajar due to an accident, a hurried rush out the door in the morning. I turn around to leave and there you are, in your black suit, shirt untucked, hair slightly unkempt, like you only had time to dry half of it before speeding to work. You are holding a bag with multiple pharmacy labels stapled to it. Not the small little sleeves of cold medicine I usually pick up, but a bag you must wrap your arms around, holding it in front of you like a shield. Your face is swollen, but you are done crying. It’s a face not so different from mine when I’ve emerged from my ten-minute bath at night, imagining a different life, then mourning its loss in the time it takes my husband to change the kids into their PJs.

I explain that I walked into your house to be a good neighbor, that your wide-open door invited danger, and I came in to make sure everything was fine. I really didn’t intend to linger in the middle of your living room. This is the benefit of having a stay at home mom living next door, right? I always make sure that everything is OK. That everyone else is OK.

Your face darkens at the mention of my mom status, evoking the canyon of space between our two small yards. You squeeze your pharmacy bag and pull it closer to your body then smile, lips quivering. You so badly need a friend, maybe as badly as me. But your lips stop quivering, you thank me, the words spilling out of your mouth. I blurt out an invitation to dinner for some undetermined point in the future, as long as you and Tim like mac and cheese and chicken nuggets since that’s currently the only fucking meal my children eat. Your plastic smile remains as you politely ambiguously agree.

I walk to the door, past you and your unyielding smile, and I catch a glimpse of the names of the drugs in your bag, names I’ll immediately go home and research on the internet.

I watch you with intense anxiety the next few weeks, reading your face through my front window as you rush to your car in the morning or pull into your driveway at night. One day the shadowy circles under your eyes even more pronounced than usual. Then the next day your step seems a little lighter, the darkness on your face at bay. You stay in more. Your lights go out as early as mine. Tim carries the groceries from the car, the tote bags from Target. He looks at you with such love and worry and hope that I feel a dark lump building in my throat every time I think of you.

I put aside maternity clothes for you. At night, I sink into the bath and wish I could look at my c-section scars in a new, appreciative way. I hope. I hope that you will be with me, that you cross the canyon between us. Then we can finally talk about the horrific and wonderful journey we will be on together, a journey no one can understand but a mother.

Soon, the darkness returns to your face, your husband looks to the ground. I give my old maternity clothes to another neighbor, one who has an easy smile and constantly rubs her growing belly. I don’t ask her over for chicken nuggets and mac and cheese.