The Alternative Life Tea Time
In an alternative universe, I got the life I wanted: motherhood. Let’s say I never dealt with any kind of infertility and hit the milestones I always expected I would. Let’s pretend I never had a stillborn daughter and continued on the path I intended.
And let’s invite this version of myself over for tea.
I place my favorite hosting pieces on the maple table Brad made and wonder if my guest will take any notice. Grandma Farrell’s china cups. The mala beads I wore while trying to get pregnant. The placemats our mother-in-law made for our bridal shower.
Inviting the mother version of myself to dinner feels odd, like something out of a science fiction novel. But getting the opportunity feels like something I can’t pass up.
I needed to see if she was happier with her two children — something I had believed for almost a decade — and now I question.
She arrived a few minutes late, something I do these days, too. She sat in her car for a bit, looking at her phone and digging around in the back seat. She took some deep breaths and appeared to be as nervous as I was, if not more.
She walks to the door in her oversized jeans and Blundstone boots. I welcomed her in and spied the mala beads peeking out from under the Pizza My Heart shirt. My version of that shirt was currently in the dryer. There are bags under the eyes, deeper in color than mine. The muscles in her arms look cut, and I wonder if she works out. She smiles, and I see more lines on her face than mine. But she exudes a sweet contentment. She carries a bag of sugar cookies from the bakery down the street, knowing they are the best. Her hair is shorter than mine, a cute bob—a cut I recently discussed with my hairdresser just last month, but decided against.
We greet each other with smiles, and immediately our arms are wrapped around each other. She hugs like my mom does, and so do I. We both acknowledge it. The sameness is eerie and distant. The veil is thin, and we both rub the goose pimples away on our forearms. And just as expected, we both begin to cry.
I bring her inside, where she notes how clean things are. Her home has the same bright teals, oranges, and the oversized couch, but with more of a mess. Her kids are taking painting classes, and the supplies live in every corner of their home. The dog greets her, and she shares that she, too, has a rescued pit bull.
I pour her tea, and she mentions that she just started her tenth year in the classroom. She loves it, well, most of it. She asks many questions about the writer’s life and what it’s like being back in grad school. We are both lifelong learners.
And then I have to ask about her kids. I debated whether even to bring them up, to focus only on her, but I know I’d regret not asking. They are four and six. The older girl, Clementine, loves school and her younger sister, Hazel. They love camping year-round, visiting craft stores, and reading. The family is currently reading James and the Giant Peach together each night. Hearing the wonderful parts of parenthood breaks my heart. I hold back more tears, the blubbering kind, and she grabs my hand.
She breaks the moment by asking about the things she dreams of.
“What do your mornings look like?”
“When was the last time just you and Brad went out to eat?”
“Do you see your friends often?”
Her questions remind me of the sparkly moments I have every day. My mornings are so soft, quiet, and slow, and I wake up rested after nine hours of sleep. We just went out to eat last night, just for the fun of it. Dinner out always feels like we're celebrating something, even if it’s regular Tuesday night. We dress up, order fancy drinks, and often walk to the ice cream shop afterwards. I intentionally refrained from telling her that Clementine died in my world. I couldn’t break her heart like that. But I did ask her to please hug her oldest a bit tighter tonight when she puts her to bed.
We both refill our mint tea and eat another sugar cookie. She confesses that she dreams of writing. She asks if I have an office, and I show her my setup. The room that was once Clementine’s nursery now holds all my favorite books, a beautiful library desk, and a dog bed that sits in front of the fake fireplace heater. She picks up the framed pictures of me on the TODAY show, sipping champagne in France, and holding a bouquet Brad bought me the first time I was published. She confesses, I’m living a life she won't have. I confess how much I wanted to be a mother. We both cry again.
I ask more questions about motherhood:
“What is Christmas morning like?”
“What will the girls dress up as for Halloween?”
“Do you go all out for their birthdays?”
She recounts last Christmas and how she and Brad had to hide in the front yard while the kids woke up and investigated Santa’s work. Clementine loves fish and has been researching Bullheads. Brad is currently making her costume with the long whiskers from wire and fabric so she can adjust them to her liking. Hazel heard that her aunt was once a present —like an actual gift box—and she wants to be one now, too. Their birthdays are enjoyable. And since they are so close to each other in July, they love a pool party. She acknowledges that they won’t always want to share the celebration, so they are taking full advantage of it.
We walk back to the table, and she asks where it came from. I tell her Brad made it. She traces her hand across the smooth lines, and I can see her brain wondering what Brad is like, too. She comments on the placemats and is inspired to bring hers out more often.
The mood shifts, like we hit a wall. She confesses she worries about dropping her children off at school, fearing that they might not make it back home. Her anxiety is through the roof when she is away from them. I say I’m afraid of what old age could be like without a younger generation to surround myself with. I, too, have anxiety, and we laugh through the tears, knowing this was inevitable for any kind of life.
We sit in silence for just a moment, wiping away tears, both longing for the other’s life. And then, with a deep breath from both of us, we stand, knowing the time has come to say goodbye.
We didn’t make plans to meet again, but I knew we both were thinking about it. I walked her outside, and in the front yard, we held each other again. Still crying, I said, “I love my life,” and she said, “Same.” I watched her climb into her tiny sedan and glanced at my large SUV. I think that was a glitch, for sure. She waves goodbye and drives out of my life.
I sat on the porch, listening to the wind in the maple tree. We are both happy. I know that I will spend my evening cooking pasta with Brad, watching the newest episode of The Great British Bake Off, and falling asleep early. I will get a whole night’s sleep, wake up refreshed for my two-hour massage appointment tomorrow, and then come home to bathe in the outdoor bath with the fire burning. I can genuinely say I adore the life I’m living, and that it’s enough.
I am enough.