Emily didn’t begrudge him, and Cleo understood that everyone made choices that kept them sane, which wasn’t always the same thing as keeping them happy. But Emily was happy enough, and it wasn’t Cleo’s life to live. Besides, as a single mother, even an ambitious, ball-busting single mother, of course there were times when Cleo wished that she had the time to pack lunches and fold laundry and run soccer carpools. (Cleo actually had no desire to do any of those things. But in theory, yes, yes, she would have liked that.)

At the very least, it might have been nice to have a partner so every decision didn’t have to land on her shoulders alone. When Lucas was a baby, it was exhausting—all those micro decisions that seemed like they might be life-changing. Bottle or breast? Stomach or swaddle? Organic or non?

One morning, early in her second year at law school and in a rush to get to her criminal procedure class, she completely forgot to put pants on him. He showed up at day care with no pants but still smiling and totally unselfconscious and kissed her on both cheeks before she left (which nearly made her crumble right there on the soft padded floor), as if him standing there without pants was entirely normal, and the wonderful caregivers assured her that she was not the first harried young mother to forget her child’s essential clothing. (He also lacked both socks and shoes. It was spring; he didn’t freeze.) It would have been nice from time to time to have a partner around to remind her to put pants on the baby.

Georgie had tried. Cleo had to give her credit for that. She’d flown out a few days after Lucas was born and slept on the couch of Cleo’s small off-campus apartment. Her own boys were three by then, so Georgie surely could have taught Cleo a thing or two. And it was kind, of course, that she showed up. And for the first day or so, Cleo had been grateful. Much like how when she initially started dating Matty, she’d appreciated his own quotient of generosity. But Cleo was so fucking exhausted and so used to making decisions for herself that by that second day, Georgie’s help began to feel instead like suffocation. Really like judgment. From someone who, for the bulk of Cleo’s life, hadn’t been in any position to pass judgment. Actually, up until Cleo’s early teen years, and certainly in the time that they’d shared a roof, Georgie had been a goddamn disaster. But there they were, the older sister as an expert, the younger one without a clue: Cleo not knowing what to do about the umbilical cord scab; Cleo having bought the wrong size diapers; Cleo nearly fainting when his poop was bright green and then having to listen to Georgie assure her (in what Cleo thought was a quite patronizing tone) that this was all just normal.

Cleo, a rigid straight line, just wanted to scream.

She’d read all the books and done her homework, and yet still Georgie tried to grasp her breast and show her how to nurse; Georgie tried to reswaddle him when Cleo’s attempts weren’t sticking; Georgie knew how to bounce him on her shoulder to get him to both burp and sleep within two minutes. And it was all too much for Cleo—not just her kindness but that her sister was in her space telling her what to do and how to do it, and her feelings weren’t even rational—she knew this! She knew that her annoyance should instead be gratitude, but on the fourth night, while Georgie was demonstrating how to give Lucas a proper bath, Cleo could just not take it a second longer—what she perceived as condescension (which she later realized was not, but this took at least a year). She exploded on Georgie to give her some space and that she was his mother. Then continued with plenty of other unkind words about how difficult Georgie made life for her parents, about how Cleo didn’t want to be taking advice from someone who had once been brought home with a police escort (a house party where Georgie had been found falling-down drunk)—all words of regret now—shouting so loudly that Lucas cried for an hour straight. And even Georgie’s patented bouncing technique would not quiet him.

Georgie left the next morning, and they returned to their monthly phone calls (if that), and Cleo dialed an agency and found a very nice woman, Bernadine, who understood boundaries and didn’t try to shove Cleo’s nipple into Lucas’s mouth and arrived at eight a.m. and left at six p.m., and that was much more civilized than the messiness of family. At least, that’s how Cleo saw it at the time. Once she got herself into a routine, she put him in day care, which meant even more boundaries and no one in their home but the two of them. Cleo was happier that way.

Tonight Emily pulled back from their hug and reached down for an (organic reusable) grocery bag at her feet. “I was at Costco today and bought an extra rotisserie chicken. Thought I’d see if you’d eaten.”

Cleo reddened. She’d planned to just order a pizza. Again. Lucas could live off pizza if she’d let him. And she didn’t want to be Emily’s pet project. “I haven’t,” Cleo said. “But really, it’s OK.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—I have more free time than you. Let me help.”

“I just . . .” Cleo couldn’t think of an excuse fast enough. She didn’t want Emily to think that she regularly needed help for simple things like, well, like dinner. Carpool rides were amazing, but that was because Cleo couldn’t be two places at once. Stocking their fridge or making a pot of pasta was simple adult stuff, and Cleo should be more capable. Just like she should have known how to swaddle Lucas or eke out a post-bottle burp.

“You have to eat, and I had an extra, no big deal.”

“You’re right,” Cleo conceded and stepped aside, welcoming her in. “Thank you.”

“The boys ran off before I could tell Benjamin that we weren’t staying. Someone to FaceTime in Seattle? Does that sound familiar or . . . did I not eavesdrop correctly?”

They landed in her kitchen, and Emily heaved the bag to the counter. She removed the chicken, which smelled, frankly, heavenly and also nutritious, which was a change from Girl Scout cookies and plane food and vanilla macadamia muffins.

“No, you heard correctly. Do kids date these days? If so, I think maybe he’s dating someone, my old friend’s daughter, there.” It occurred to Cleo that Emily might have her ear to the ground on eighth-grade gossip. “But have you heard of any . . . romance here?”

“Oh, Benjamin wouldn’t say a word.” Emily pulled out a bottle of wine, then a salad. “But I’ll ask Penny; she’d know. She’s like the town crier.” Penny was their youngest, only sixteen months younger than Ben. God bless Emily Godwin—How on earth does she do it? Cleo thought. “Oh, I also got you a salad. They were on sale. I figured after . . .”

“You saw the video from Seattle?” Cleo laughed. “This is a pity dinner, isn’t it?”

Emily laughed too. “No, just, Jonathan’s working late, and the other two kids are accounted for. I hated the idea of you on your own after . . . all of that.” She paused. “I hope you don’t mind. I know we’re not . . . I mean, I’m sure you have other friends to do this kind of thing with.”

Cleo reached for a wine opener. “I don’t really. Believe it or not, cutthroat young women do not make friends easily.”

“I wouldn’t call you cutthroat.”

“You’re not on the Judiciary Committee with me.” Cleo grabbed two wineglasses and poured generous fills. “Should we call the boys?”

“Let’s drink this first,” Emily said. “They’ll still be there when we’re done.”

Cleo clinked her glass to hers. She liked her more and more by the minute.

With a belly full of chicken and salad, Cleo felt better than she had in days. She really should make a better effort with her diet, she told herself. She didn’t have to be Gaby and enter a marathon and swear off gluten (and dairy and anything else remotely pleasing to her palate) to be a little healthier. And maybe it was the protein and vitamins or maybe it was the wine (Emily had stopped at one glass because she was driving Benjamin home, but Cleo had poured herself a second), but she finally felt brave enough to cull her list, to whittle it down to ten actionable items that she really did regret and had courage enough to admit to. And possibly face publicly if both Gaby and Veronica Kaye insisted. There probably was not a lot she wouldn’t do for a check from Veronica Kaye. In a different line of work, some might call it prostitution. In politics, it was fundraising.

She grabbed a red pen from her desk, unlocked the drawer, pulled out the worn yellow paper. Two hundred and thirty-three regrets over twenty-four years really wasn’t all that many, she thought. She made a mental note to raise this with Gaby, who seemed gobsmacked at the number. That was what?—Cleo did the quick math—something like ten or so a year. Imagine going through your life with only one regret a month! That was nothing! That was one bad day’s worth.