Confessions of a Domestic Failure

by Bunmi Laditan

  My body flushed with heat and I couldn’t breathe.

  “What...what are you going to do?” I managed to say, practically trembling.

  “I fired her yesterday,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe she’d do that to us.”

  “You can’t,” my voice said without permission from my brain.

  “What?” David stared into the camera.

  I moved backward on the bed, as if trying to create distance in addition to the thousands of miles already between us.

  “You can’t fire her. Not like this.” I was shaking.

  “Ashley, if—”

  “It was me, David,” I blurted out. “I sent the email.”

  David looked like he was going to faint as he took in my words.

  “You? Ashley...why...when?”

  I held my face with my hands. “I was trying to help, I knew you were worried, oh, my gosh, David, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  I covered my face and breathed deeply, waiting for him to speak.

  He took a deep breath and his face relaxed. Relief washed over me. Then he spoke.

  “Yeah. It is.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What?”

  “I can’t believe you did this,” he said, dryly. He stared at me as if trying to recognize a stranger.

  Tears sprung into my eyes. “David, I said I was sorry...”

  He stood up out of the frame. All I could see were Aubrey’s feet dangling from his hip.

  “I can’t talk to you right now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “David.”

  “Bye.”

  The camera went black.

  I sat there in shock. He had every right to be upset, but I wasn’t expecting this.

  What was I thinking? I sat on the bed, staring at my hands. I hadn’t been thinking. I’d been in a sleep-deprived haze that day, but that was no excuse. I should have thought. I should have talked to him first. I was just scared for him, trying to help. He’d never forgive me for this. A tear slid down my cheek. I just wanted to be at home, not here in some mansion pretending to be someone I’m not.

  I wiped my face. May as well let the other shoe drop.

  I clicked on the email icon on my computer and without thinking composed a letter to Nina and Lola.

  To: Nina Pikkering and Lola Vetter

  From: Ashley Keller

  Subject: The truth about me

  Hello Nina, Lola and everyone at La Lait. I have something to confess that has been weighing heavily on me. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not breastfeeding and never was. What happened in the café when we first met was all a misunderstanding and then, because I was so desperate for friends, and you were all so wonderful to me, I led you to believe that I was one of you. Well, I’m not. I’m sorry for lying. I won’t contact you again.

  Ashley

  I pressed Send before I could chicken out then clicked my computer shut. I took another deep breath. I didn’t feel scared. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel anything. I glanced around the room and noticed the welcome basket sitting on the dresser. Kimmie had already rifled through it and probably snagged all the good stuff, but a mini bottle of champagne remained. Not feeling the need for formalities like ice or glasses, I uncorked it and helped myself to a few long, bubbly sips. Within a few minutes I felt refreshingly peppy. When did I become such a lightweight?

  I gazed at myself in the bathroom mirror. Two months ago I would have been thrilled to know I’d be standing right here, all dressed up, about to have dinner in Emily Walker’s home. Two months ago this would have been my dream.

  “Are you coming, Ashley?” I heard Kimmie call from the bedroom.

  I walked toward the door and stumbled a little before catching my step.

  “Note to self, don’t fall over,” I whispered, giggling. I hadn’t drunk that much, but the tension from my call with David seemed to make the alcohol go straight to my head.

  Kim raised an eyebrow at me as I walked toward her. She looked gorgeous in her red strapless minidress and matching red heels. Her makeup was even more dramatic than mine—from the cat eye to the bold, crimson lipstick, she looked like she’d jumped right out of a luxury car commercial. How did this person have children?

  I stumbled again.

  “Someone’s been enjoying themselves a little too much! Wish you’d saved some of that good stuff for me!” she said, laughing.

  I picked my purse up off of the bed and offered Kim my elbow. “Shall we?”

  She hooked her elbow in mine. “We shall.”

  So what if I’d lost my house, my friends and my husband’s trust? Tonight, I was determined to have one night of fun before facing the music that was waiting for me at home.

  The large dining room had the air of a sophisticated French restaurant. Twinkling lights hung from the brick accent wall, which was draped with real ivy. The long, beautiful table was set with glass vase centerpieces bursting with white hydrangeas, and tall cream-colored candles adorned the silver runner. The entire table was dotted with tea lights that flickered against dimly lit walls. It was breathtakingly romantic.

  Even in my state, I could appreciate how stunning the room was. A butler, with a white tea towel on his arm, stood at attention by the door.

  “May I help you ladies to your seats? Madame Keller and Madame Reardon, yes?”

  Kim and I looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

  “How did you know our names?” I asked incredulously.

  The butler didn’t smile. “We have been briefed on all guests. Please follow me.”

  We were led to seats at the head of the table. I picked up the pink and gray folded name card on my salad plate. Ashley Keller.

  Kimmie was seated beside me. She whispered in my ear, “Ashley! You’re sitting next to Emily! Lucky! Wanna switch?” She tried to edge her way past me.

  “Not on your life!” I yell-whispered back, sitting down quickly.

  A woman appeared on my right. “Champagne, madame?”

  “Yes, please!” I answered.

  The woman gently took my flute and filled it.

  When Kimmie’s glass was full we cheered and sipped. The bubbly liquid was like a calming balm against my anxieties.

  I turned to Kimmie and put a hand on her shoulder.

  “I love this. I love you.” A carefree laugh escaped out of my mouth and became a snort.

  Kimmie’s eyes grew wide. She nudged me. “Well, you’d better pull it together because here comes Queen Bee.”

  Everyone rose, as if a dignitary had just entered the room. I stood too quickly, causing my chair to fall backward. For some reason, I found it hilarious and dissolved into cheery laughter.

  Janice, who was seated directly across from me, exchanged glances with Lauren.

  “Whoops!” Emily bent down to help me right my chair. “Good evening, Ashley. How is your hand?”

  I lifted up my palm. “As good as new. I can barely feel my hand. Or my face.” I giggled.

  “I’m...glad to hear it,” she said, kindly ignoring the second half of my statement.

  Emily looked stunning, as always, in a pale pink and lavender knee-length tea dress with white sling-backs. Her hair was pulled back into an elegant bun. She wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her makeup was subtle but polished: a mauve lip, long dark lashes and charcoal shadow.

  Emily took her place at the head of the table, to my right, and everyone took their seats.

  “It’s so nice to see all of you tonight. I can’t tell you how excited I am about the Motherhood Better Bootcamp Finale tomorrow. Who’s ready to find out who’s going to be crowned as the Motherhood Better champion?”

  Everyone clapped politely. I hooted. Janice co
ughed and gave me a disapproving look.

  “Before we dig into this glorious meal that my chef, Lorenzo, put together, I just want to thank all of you for sharing so much of yourselves and being so willing to put yourselves out there. It means everything, not just to me, but to the thousands of women who will hear about your journeys tomorrow.”

  The women nodded politely. A chiseled Latin man wearing a chef’s hat and black apron appeared behind Emily.

  “Ah, Lorenzo! Everyone, this is the chef whose amazing recipes grace the pages of EmilyWalker.com. He’s been feeding my family since before my eldest could walk.”

  Lorenzo took off his hat, revealing a luscious head of black ear-length curls. It was as if the room suddenly grew warmer. I saw a few ladies shift in their seats.

  “It’s very nice to meet all of you. I hope you enjoy your meal. Bon appetit!” he said, nodding.

  I raised my hand.

  Emily looked at me, confused.

  “Yes, Ashley?”

  I heard myself speak. “Actually, I have a question for Lorenzo.”

  Emily laughed nervously. “Okay.”

  Lorenzo stared at me, curious.

  I took a sip of my champagne and tried to look scholarly.

  “Do you have any advice for mothers who hate cooking?”

  The table burst out into laughter. Emily blinked, wide-eyed.

  I glanced at Janice and noticed that her face was red with laughter.

  Lorenzo chuckled and then placed his finger on his chin.

  “Takeout?”

  Everyone burst into rowdy guffaws again. Even Emily had her napkin against her mouth to hide her chuckles.

  Emily put her hands up. “Okay, okay, everyone. Very funny, Ashley. Who’s ready to eat?”

  Everyone clapped and hollered. I’m not sure if it was the promise of food, the champagne or my question, but the mood had relaxed significantly.

  A flurry of waitstaff placed appetizers on everyone’s plates.

  Mine arrived—a set of three mini puff pastries, all stuffed with unique fillings. There was creamy chive, some sort of smoked fish and one overflowing with a fragrant relish.

  Once everyone had been served, Emily raised her fork. “Dive in!”

  And we did! Course after course continued to arrive. I lost count after five. The main dish was half a crispy, perfectly roasted duck with roasted garlic potatoes and asparagus. I hadn’t eaten that well since my wedding.

  “So, moms,” Emily said, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. “Before we go live tomorrow, I want to hear what your bootcamp experiences have really been like. Feel free to be perfectly honest.”

  A woman in her late twenties wearing a green cardigan and skirt set with black curly hair raised her hand. I recognized her as Lillian Pearson. She had three-year-old twin girls and had written the most thoughtful journal entry about starting a food drive in her city.

  “Yes, Lillian!” Emily said, taking a most un-Emily-like swig from her wineglass. Was that her fourth glass?

  Lillian stood. She smoothed the front of her sweater. “I just want to say that this has been the best experience of my life,” she began shyly. “Usually, it’s just me and the kids at home all day, not really talking to anyone. Since starting the Motherhood Better Bootcamp, I’ve felt like I have real friends and—” Her voice broke and she took a second to compose herself. “I feel like people understand me.”

  I could feel tears welling in my eyes. Glancing at Kimmie, I noticed her wipe the corner of her eye with her napkin. Even Janice was misting up.

  Lillian continued. “I want to thank you, Emily, for putting this together. I’ve admired you for a long time and it has been an honor.”

  Emily stood up and, without saying a word, pushed out her chair, walked over to Lillian and gave her a long hug.

  My heart swelled. This is what it’s all about, I thought. This is all I want and need in motherhood. People who get it.

  Emily made her way back to her seat, wiping her eyes with her fingers the whole way. She took another sip. “Does anyone else want to share?”

  My hand shot up.

  Emily smiled. “Ashley? The floor is all yours.”

  I stood up and felt myself get a little dizzy. My two glasses of champagne had gone right to my head. I used Kimmie’s shoulder for balance. She laughed into her glass.

  Once upright, I cleared my throat. “Everyone. Emily.” I turned to face my host. “I’m not like all of you. I don’t bake. Not anything very edible, anyway. I can’t crochet my own baby clothes. I’d rather order pizza than make anything.” I looked up and saw that everyone was staring at me, most with jaws dropped, but nothing was going to stop me now. “My house is always a mess and I’m genuinely surprised that a family of possums hasn’t moved in.” I paused, trying to find my words. My eyes met Emily’s.

  “I’m not like you. You’re perfect, Emily. I’ve always wanted to be the kind of mom you are and I’ll never be that. You make organic gluten-free apple butternut squash scones. I eat peanut butter off of a spoon in my underwear on the couch while my baby naps. You recycle old clothes into keepsake quilts. I sometimes buy new pants to avoid doing laundry. You make the most beautiful crafts out of mason jars and buttons. I don’t know where my passport is.”

  I heard someone giggle.

  “Point is, I know I shouldn’t win tomorrow, because before me is a group of women—” I turned to Kimmie “—not you, Kimmie. You’re just as messy as I am. Women who inspire me and make me feel insanely jealous and inadequate. I want to raise my glass to all of you.”

  I thrust my wineglass in the air, sending a stream of chardonnay directly into my face.

  “Ow!” I screamed as the liquid burned my eyes.

  Emily jumped up and put a napkin to my face, helping me back into my seat.

  I blinked my eyes until everything came into focus.

  Emily began to speak. “That was...quite the speech, Ashley, I—”

  “I HATE MY HUSBAND,” said a voice to my left.

  It was Serena Hossfield, mother of four and bake-sale fundraising expert. Emily and I both stared.

  She stood up, suddenly shy. “I mean, I love him, but I hate him at the same time. He doesn’t understand my life at all. He pretends to take a crap and plays on his phone for hours at a time.”

  Other moms nodded enthusiastically and murmured. I exhaled sharply. Was this happening?

  “I HATE CRAFTS!” a petite mousy brunette shouted, standing up. Tanya Gregory, mom of three. I’d recognize that face anywhere. She’d practically flooded the portal with photos of her creations: keepsake boxes, scrapbooking ideas and shadow boxes.

  “I HATE THEM!” she screamed again. Her eyes were wide and wild. She took a long drink of the brown liquid on the rocks in her glass. “I only do them because they make me feel better than other moms who can’t. It’s my gift and my curse. But deep down, I’d like to douse my craft room and set it ablaze.”

  From her seat, Emily tried to regain control of the rapidly spiraling room. “Okay, okay, everyone,” she said, pushing down with her hands.

  “Breastfeeding sucks!” shouted a tall woman with a black bob next to Janice. She stood up. Her sweater dress accentuated her slim build.

  “I hated every minute of it, but my doula convinced me my baby would be a dumb-ass if I didn’t do it. That’s crazy. My nephew was breastfed for two years and he’s the slowest kid I know.”

  Emily stood up. “That’s quite enough, everyone. I know our lives aren’t easy but...” Her voice trailed off and she stared at the empty seat directly across from hers. The one meant for her husband.

  “You know what? Screw this.” Emily threw her napkin down on the table and everyone stared at her like they would a mother who had finally snapped.

&nb
sp; Emily picked up her drink. “I’m tired of being little miss perfect. Life is freaking hard sometimes. It’s hard. Kids don’t listen. Husbands act like jackasses and I do EVERYTHING! I do everything! I’m tired of making organic quinoa cakes when I just want to order a pizza. I love chocolate cake. I love gluten. I LOVE GLUTEN.” Emily gestured toward her lower half.

  Everyone cheered.

  “To gluten!” she said, raising her wineglass. We all raised ours with her.

  Emily put her other hand on the table and leaned forward. “Who wants to get crazy?”

  Everyone hooted. Emily smiled. “Lorenzo! We’re gonna need more wine!”

  Friday, March 8, 6 A.M.

  I woke up with a splitting headache. I put my hands on my head, trying to quell the throbbing coming from within my brain.

  Opening my eyes, I noticed that I wasn’t in my bed. I wasn’t inside. I was lying in a pool chair next to the hot tub. Beside me was Janice, hunched over on a beach towel propped up against a table. I scanned the crime scene. Among the bottles, bags of chips, empty pizza boxes and wet bikinis were passed-out moms. Then I noticed Emily. She was fast asleep, curled up on a pile of robes under a patio table.

  I sat up. Kimmie was on the next beach chair over.

  I pushed her shoulder. “Kimmie. Kimmie, wake up.” She grumbled and struggled to open her eyes.

  “Kimmie, what time is it? Aren’t we taping today?”

  Kimmie’s eyes flew open. She jumped up with the strength of a dozen toddlers. “You have got to be kidding me! I need my injections!” And with that she gathered her shoes and ran toward the main house.

  “Emily! Emily!” I could see Anna running across the lawn toward us with her trademark clipboard in hand.

  When she finally reached us, Anna stopped dead in her tracks, trying to take in the carnage.

  “What. Happened. Here?” she whispered.

  I stood up and wobbled a bit. “We got a little...um, wild last night after dinner.”

  “I can see that,” Anna said through her teeth.

  Anna stomped over to Emily and gently prodded her shoulder. “Emily. EMILY.”