It was one of those rare sunny Saturdays in Astoria. You know, the kind that trick you into thinking you’ve got your life together. Sun’s out. Kids need air. So, I throw them in the car. Tapiola Park. That’s the plan.
Jack sprints before I’ve even killed the engine. Lily? Straight to the swings. Max? He’s two. He’s on some kind of personal excavation mission, picking up every leaf, rock, and God-knows-what.
And me? Coffee. Cooling way too fast.
Then my phone buzzes. Ben.
“Hey. I’m in the area. Want me to take the kids for lunch?”
I hesitate. Not because I don’t want the break—oh, I absolutely do. But impromptu plans? Not our thing. We do structure. Calendars. A whole shared Google thing. But… free time?
“Uh, yeah. That’d be great. They’ve been talking about pizza all morning.”
An hour later, the kids pile into his car, bouncing with excitement. That used to sting. The way they run to him. But honestly? Right now, I just wave, turn, and breathe. Alone.
First stop? A boutique I’ve been meaning to check out forever. Normally, shopping with kids means chaos. No time to browse. No time to try anything on. Today? Different. I try on a dress. Floral. Flowy. Feels like me.
I’m wearing it tonight.
Because—deep breath—I have a date.
Tinder. Yep. We’re doing that.
His name’s Ryan. Seems normal. No fish-holding pics. Big win.
Fast forward to 7 p.m. I’m at Astoria Coffee House & Bistro. I walk in, nerves bubbling. And then—there he is. Okay. He actually looks like his photos. Good start.
The conversation? Flows. Movies. Travel. Dumb childhood stories. At one point, he asks about my kids.
“Three,” I say, grinning. “Amazing. Exhausting. The reason I consume more coffee than the average adult should.”
Ryan laughs. “Sounds like a full-time adventure. So, what do you do when you’re not being Supermom?”
That question catches me. Because for so long, that’s all I’ve been. Survival mode. Post-divorce rebuilding. Mom, first. Woman? Somewhere down the list.
But tonight? I remember. I like hiking. Writing. Finding new restaurants. And apparently, I like this conversation.
By the time the check comes, I realize something—I haven’t checked my phone once. No meltdown texts. No last-minute disasters. Just… this. A moment.
When I get home, the house is still. Quiet. Kids tucked in. Ben must’ve handled bedtime. Miracle.
I slip off my shoes. Hang up my new dress. Exhale.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel balanced.
Not just “mom.” Not just “ex-wife.”
Me.
And that? That feels good.