Page 20 of Buttons

I point toward the sandbox, where there’s a single boy about Leo’s age making a series of tunnels and moats. “Look at what he’s building. I bet he’d love some help.”

Leo shakes his head, pressing closer.

“Just watch him first, if you want,” I suggest. “Sometimes it’s good to observe before jumping in.”

This resonates with him because observation is safe. I guide him to a bench with a clear view of the sandbox, and we sit together, watching the boy’s progress.

“He’s making a castle,” Leo whispers after a few minutes. “But his walls keep falling down.”

“Maybe you know how to help make them stronger?”

Leo considers this, his small forehead creasing in thought. “I think I do,” he says finally.

“Do you want to tell him?”

Another pause. “I think I’ll show him.”

It takes one more minute of silent deliberation before Leo slides off the bench, straightening his jacket in a gesture so reminiscent of Julian that my breath catches. He approaches the sandbox in a way that’s careful not to appear too eager or too invested.

I watch him kneel beside the boy and point to the crumbling wall, demonstrating a different technique. The boy looks up, considers Leo’s suggestion, then nods.

Meanwhile, across the playground, Meredith’s laughter rings as she takes her turn chasing the other children. She runs with abandon, hair flying, arms wide, claiming space without apology.

The contrast between my children crystalizes something I’ve been avoiding. Leo, with his careful movements and strategic interactions, mirrors Julian’s approach to relationships. They’re calculated, always evaluating cost versus benefit. Meredith, fearless and expressive, reflects the person I was before I learned to dim my light for Julian’s comfort. Before I had to prove myself by showing how organized and stiff I can be, too.

I don’t want this for them. I don’t want Leo to inherit Julian’s emotional guardedness, his inability to connect. I don’t want Meredith to learn, as I did, that accommodating others at her own expense is a virtue rather than a slow form of self-abandonment.

My children deserve better than the patterns we’ve established. They deserve to keep their light, their authenticity, their right to exist without constant calculation of their worth. Much like Julian’s pro-con list.

On the bench, I dig my nails into my palms. This isn’t about me anymore; it’s about breaking cycles before they become ingrained habits.

An hour passes. Leo and the sandbox boy have constructed an elaborate fortress with moats and bridges. Meredith has cycled through three different games with varying groups of children. Both are flushed with exertion and satisfaction when I finally call them to leave.

“Mommy, can we come back tomorrow?” Meredith asks, slipping her hand into mine as we walk toward the park exit.

Leo, trailing slightly behind, adds quietly, “Sam said he comes here every weekend morning.”

Sam. The sandbox boy has a name now. A potential friend.

“Yes,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket, the absence of Julian’s messages a strange new freedom. “We can come back tomorrow.”

As we leave the park, I focus on my children’s hands in mine. One grips firmly, the other loosely. Effectively reset, I’ll call Virginia when we get home.

Chapter 8

Elowen

We don’t have a kitchen table, only that marble counter with the mismatched barstools. What’s nice about the stools is their different heights and sizes.I have my phone on the table, while I sit on the highest one. My fingers hover over my phone screen, hesitating before I tap “Create Account.” It’s been eight years since I’ve had any social media presence of my own. Eight years of appearing only in Julian’s posts as the perfect corporate wife with her perfect straight hair standing beside her perfect husband.

Not anymore.

I fill in basic demographical information, but pause at the “name” field. For a moment, I type “Elowen Plaza,” then slowly delete each letter, watching them disappear one by one. In their place, I type “Elowen Fallinger.” After so long without use, my maiden name feels wrong.

The app asks for a profile picture. I open my photo library, scrolling past hundreds of perfectly posed family photos. Between the matching outfits on the beach, coordinated Christmas sweaters, and professional portraits where even the children’s smiles look rehearsed, nothing feels right. I keep scrolling until I find a selfie I took yesterday after cutting my hair. My waves frame my face in untamed swirls. My button nose crinkles slightly with my hesitant smile. It’s who I am now. Anything else is a lie.

I upload that picture, then begin typing the caption, “This is me. Not the me you might have seen before, the version that used to fit someone else’s idea of perfection. This is me, with my wavy hair and my button nose, and my own thoughts. It’s terrifying, but liberating.”

My thumb hovers over “Post.” One tap, and this declaration goes public. One tap, and I can’t take it back. One tap, and—