After the Divorce, I Returned to the Track Chapter 1

I spent three whole weeks planning my son Noah's ninth birthday, and in the end, there was no place for me in the family photo.

When it was time for pictures, Noah held Vera's hand and jerked his chin toward the cake table. "Mom, they need help over there." One of the parents casually asked why I wasn't in the shot. Noah answered as if it were obvious, without a hint of embarrassment. "She's just a stay-at-home mom. Taking pictures for us is her job. Besides, she didn't do anything for my party, so she doesn't get to be in the photo with us."

The little sailboat at the center of the party was built from Noah's drawings, but I was the one who stayed up two nights in a row fixing the mast. I was the one who went over every sailing lesson with the instructor. Even when the birthday cake came in the wrong flavor, I was the one who drove through the pouring rain to exchange it. But in Noah's eyes, all of that was just what a mother was supposed to do.

I wanted him to explain himself, but my husband, Adam, cut in with a frown. "Erin, don't embarrass the kid in front of all these people on his birthday."

"So we're just going to let what he said go?"

"He's nine. Do you really have to pick a fight with him right now?"

The photographer was about to take the shot. Adam and his mother stood beside Noah, and Vera smiled as she smoothed his sleeve. I turned and walked toward the long cake table. By the time the party ended, no one had called me over for a picture.

We were trapped in a blizzard 13 years ago. He gripped my hand and refused to let go. He gave me all our supplies and held me close to keep me warm. He told me to hang on, and that once we got out, I could do everything I'd ever wanted to do. Back then, I thought marrying Adam was the luckiest choice I'd ever make.

Now I dug a dusty racing helmet out of the storage room and called a divorce lawyer.

Since you all look down on stay-at-home moms, I'm done pretending. I'm going back to the track.

* * *

Three weeks earlier, Noah had told me he wanted to show off the sailboat he'd made at his birthday party. I called the club, rescheduled the sailing lesson, went over the safety checklist with the instructor again and again, and stayed up two nights fixing the little sailboat's mast from his sketch. That morning, when the bakery sent the wrong flavor, I drove through the rain to exchange the cake.

A parent nearby asked with a smile, "Noah, isn't your mom going to be in the picture?"

"She doesn't even have a job," Noah shot back. "The photo's for the people who helped me with my project."

A few quiet snickers came from the patio. I took half a step forward and looked at my son. "Do you remember who fixed the mast on that boat?"

His smile froze. "Mom, I'm not blaming you for anything. You just helped me take care of some stuff."

"Taking care of things is real work too," I said. "If you don't want to be in a picture with me, you can just tell me. But you can't say I didn't do anything."

Adam turned away from the photographer. He was wearing a dark gray suit, and half an hour earlier, he'd been talking with donors about next year's youth sailing program. When he saw Noah squirm, he frowned at me. "Erin, don't make the kid feel bad on his birthday. Let's finish the pictures first. We'll talk about everything else at home."

"And what about what he just said?"

"He's only nine," Adam said in a low voice. "Do you really have to win this right now?"

The photographer urged us to hurry. Adam turned back around, and Helen reached out and pulled Noah toward the middle of the group. Vera gave me an apologetic look, like she wanted to move out of the way, but Noah was still holding on to her wrist. I didn't ask her to step aside. I turned and walked to the cake table.

The birthday candles were lit, and Noah cheered as he blew them out three times. The guests applauded. I stood at the back of the crowd and reached out to keep the paper party hat from blowing off his head in the sea breeze. Helen walked over to me. "Everything was perfect today, sweetheart. Adam never has to worry about a thing, thanks to you." She gave me a light hug, then turned to go chat with the journalists again.

For 13 years, I'd heard things like that more times than I could count. You did a great job. You're the best fit for this family. You never make anyone worry. It sounded like praise, but all the credit, the cameras, and the applause always ended up going to someone else.

Vera came over to the cake table and asked if I needed help carrying anything. I told her the staff had it covered. She smelled faintly of cedar, the same scent I'd noticed on Adam's coat that morning. I'd known Vera a long time, and I'd heard the rumors about her and Adam back in college. Adam never wanted to explain what had happened. Whenever I pushed a little too hard, he accused me of not trusting him.

"Erin." Vera noticed I'd zoned out. "Are you okay?"

"The cake was great. The kids had a lot of fun." I put the extra candles back in their box.

At 11 that night, Noah fell asleep hugging his presents. Adam sat in his study answering emails, and I opened the photo files the photographer had sent. In 37 edited shots, Adam had his arm around his son's shoulders, Helen was laughing with the sponsors, and Vera stood right in the middle of their group. The only place I appeared was the background, out of focus, with a trash bag in my hand.

The event caption read, "The Holt family and partners celebrate Noah's birthday." I'd been running around from start to finish. I'd planned everything and signed off on the budget, but my name wasn't on the list at all.

I turned the computer toward Adam. "Look at this."

He glanced at the screen. "The pictures came out nice."

"I'm talking about the names."

"I'll have someone add you tomorrow. Or we'll take another set next time." He closed his laptop. "Erin, Noah's just a kid. There's no need to let a few pictures ruin a whole day."

I didn't argue with him anymore. I went to the storage room, moved a few unused garment bags out of the way, and found the racing helmet that had been sitting there for years. Sweat had faded the name on the lining, but it still clearly read Erin Grant.

I set the helmet by the bed, opened my contacts, and called the divorce lawyer a friend had recommended six months ago.

"Hello." The moment the call connected, my voice came out steadier than I'd expected. "I'd like to make an appointment to discuss the divorce process."