Chapter 2

Jane's POV

I sat frozen in the driver's seat, my hand still resting on the window.

The girl who had laughed at me walked closer, giving my car and my clothes a pointed once-over.

"Beatrice, you said your mom was always dressed in designer clothes. How come she looks like she hasn't slept in days? Even her hair is a mess."

The other girl giggled. Beatrice didn't defend me.

"Enough. That's an adult matter," Beatrice said impatiently. "I'm leaving."

My hand slipped from the window and tightened around the steering wheel.

Beatrice waved goodbye to the girls and walked toward my car. But when she reached the passenger door, she didn't immediately get in.

Instead, she glanced in both directions, making sure no one she knew was nearby, before opening the door and climbing inside.

"Let's go," she said flatly.

I pulled away from the curb.

One intersection passed. Then another.

Beatrice kept her face turned toward the window, clutching her dance bag tightly against her chest.

"Beatrice," I finally said.

"Why did you say that back there?"

Silence.

"Beatrice! I'm talking to you!"

She finally answered without turning around.

"What?"

"Why did you tell them I was the housekeeper?"

Her shoulders stiffened. After a moment, she spoke.

"Can you please stop picking me up from now on?"

My hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"What?"

"Let the driver come instead. Or someone else."

"I'm your mother."

Beatrice finally turned to look at me. Her eyes traveled from my head to my feet, lingering on my clothes before she looked away.

"What are you wearing?"

I glanced down at myself. A sweatshirt, jeans, and flat shoes. They were all clean, just a little wrinkled.

"You always look so tired," Beatrice said.

I opened my mouth.

I wanted to tell her it was because I was carrying her little brother or sister, that I spent every day throwing up and every night struggling to get enough sleep.

But the words never came out.

"Miss Zoe is different," Beatrice continued. There was a judgmental edge to her voice that no eight-year-old should have had. "She wears a different dress every day. Her hair always looks pretty, and she smells nice. Blair says she wants to be just like Miss Zoe when she grows up."

A tear slipped down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand.

When we got home, Beatrice went straight to her bedroom and shut the door.

I stood in the living room for a long time, staring at the mirror in the hallway.

Was that really me?

My hair was a mess, loose strands sticking out in every direction. My face was pale, my skin sallow. The collar of my sweatshirt had stretched out, and a few threads were coming loose at the cuffs.

My own daughter was ashamed of me.

She would rather call me the housekeeper than admit I was her mother.

I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet.

Dresses, tailored suits, high heels. Bright colors and delicate fabrics.

I reached out and touched the sleeve of one dress. The silk felt cool and smooth beneath my fingertips.

How long had it been since I'd worn any of these?

My phone rang.

It was a message from Matthew.

Come home early tonight. There's something I need to discuss with you.

I put my phone down, glanced at the closet one last time, and closed the door.

It was already dark when Matthew returned.

I heard the front door and walked out of the kitchen. He was changing his shoes in the entryway, his phone still in his hand as he spoke to someone.

The moment he saw me, he hung up.

"You're still awake?"

"I was waiting for you. Didn't you say you had something to tell me?"

"Yes." He nodded. "You picked Beatrice up from dance class today?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"No... nothing." He put his phone down and sat on the sofa.

I followed him and took a seat opposite him.

He glanced at me, quickly looked away, and cleared his throat.

"There's something I wanted to tell you," he said. "It's good news."

I said nothing.

"Beatrice has been offered a place at a residential dance camp in Montana," he began. "It's a three-month program with excellent instructors. Zoe says it'll look good on Beatrice's future school applications."

I didn't respond.

"I know three months sounds like a long time, but—"

"When did you and Beatrice discuss this?"

Matthew blinked.

"What?"

"When did Beatrice tell you about it?"

"Two weeks ago." He answered quickly. "We've been discussing it ever since. I wanted to wait until everything was confirmed before telling you."

Two weeks ago.

That was when I'd been so sick I could barely get out of bed.

I stood up and walked toward the staircase. Helen happened to be passing through the hallway.

"Please ask Beatrice to come downstairs."

Helen nodded and went upstairs.

A moment later, Beatrice entered the living room and stood between us, nervously twisting her hands together.

"Your father says you have a summer camp opportunity," I said. "In Montana."

I looked directly at her.

"Do you know about this?"