Chapter 3: The Blame Game

2

"My husband isn’t bad either."

Kelsey’s mom raised her voice.

She grinned, chin up, itching for everyone’s attention. There was always an edge to her—a need to prove she had it just as good as anyone else.

"My husband went to Paris and brought back designer dresses. Gorgeous! Come on, let’s check them out at my place."

She twirled, skirt swishing, the other moms laughing, tension breaking. Someone joked about needing a wardrobe upgrade.

Kelsey’s husband was older, and she always made a show of how much he loved her—insisting she married for love, not money.

She’d drop hints about getaways or fancy dinners, always careful to mention how thoughtful he was, as if daring anyone to call her a gold digger.

I smiled and shook my head. "I’ll pass. I need to take Maddie up for her bath. You all go ahead."

I tried to keep it light, but Kelsey’s mom’s lips pinched. The other moms exchanged glances—everyone knew the score.

Kelsey’s mom liked to compete and was immediately annoyed.

She huffed, straightening her shoulders like she was about to walk into a boardroom. I almost laughed.

"Didn’t your husband just say you could come up later? It won’t take long to stop by my place. Can’t you just do me this one favor?"

She flashed a tight smile, her words sharper than they needed to be. The tension prickled around us—moms can be more competitive than high school cheer squads.

At 11:00, I left Kelsey’s place.

My footsteps echoed in the quiet hallway, the AC making me shiver as I left the warmth of her apartment. My mind wandered to Ben, picturing him humming off-key as he checked the water.

At 11:05, I caught Maddie, who was running wild by the slide, and dragged her home.

She darted between swings and monkey bars, cheeks flushed. I had to chase her down, promising popsicles and her favorite bubble bath to get her attention.

At first, she didn’t want to go.

She dug in, pouting, arms crossed. The other kids cheered her on, making my job harder.

She pleaded, "Just five more minutes! Mom, just five more minutes, okay?" I firmly refused, "The bathwater will get cold."

I had to fight the urge to give in—Maddie’s puppy-dog eyes were powerful—but I was already thinking about the water, about keeping to the routine. Sometimes being a mom means being the villain.

She said goodbye to her friends, looking all sad. The parents sitting around smiled knowingly at me.

I shrugged at them, mouthing a silent “sorry” as I wrangled Maddie away. Someone gave me a sympathetic thumbs-up. We’ve all been there.

At 11:08, Maddie and I went up to the second floor and ran into our single neighbor across the hall, Alex, who was just heading out to take out the trash. He blushed and greeted me.

Alex always wore faded college hoodies and mismatched socks. He smiled shyly, juggling a bag of takeout containers, waving with the hand not full of trash.

Maddie grabbed his hand and sweetly asked when he’d help her build Lego again, while I took out the key to open the door.

She had him wrapped around her finger, and he always obliged, spending Saturday mornings on the floor building castles and rocket ships. I shot him an apologetic smile, mouthing a “thank you.”

At 11:09, while Maddie was saying goodbye to Alex in the hallway, I called out, "Babe," and got no response, so I walked into the bathroom.

The silence inside was heavy, pressing in from all sides. The tiles felt cold under my bare feet. The air was thick with steam and something sour I couldn’t name. The faint hiss of water was the only sound, echoing off the tile.

At 11:10, I screamed.

It was a sound that scraped the back of my throat raw. My knees buckled, and I reached for the doorframe to keep from collapsing. Somewhere behind me, Maddie’s voice was rising, frightened.

Ben’s pale face was submerged under the water, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

His lips were blue, his skin so white it almost glowed. For a split second, I was sure I could see his chest moving, waiting for him to blink, to cough, to joke that he’d just dozed off.

He was already dead.

The realization settled like lead in my gut. The bathroom spun around me, and the scream still hung in the air, too loud, too late.

I realized, for the first time, I might never convince her—or myself—that I wasn’t to blame.