When Anna mentioned her high school reunion, I barely looked up from my phone.

She was at the kitchen counter, twisting her hair into a loose knot—the way she does when she’s trying to sound casual about something that actually matters.

Behind her, chaos unfolded as usual. One kid couldn’t find a shoe. Another was complaining about math homework. The baby was banging a spoon against the high chair tray.

“They’re having a ten-year reunion next month,” she said lightly. “I was thinking about going.”

I let out a short laugh.

Not because it was funny. Because it felt unnecessary.

“Why?” I asked.

She blinked. “Why what?”

“Why go?” I said, leaning back in my chair. “So you can tell everyone you stay home and wipe noses all day?”

She turned toward me slowly.

“What?”

I shrugged, irritation rising from somewhere I didn’t examine too closely. “Come on, Anna. Your classmates are probably surgeons, lawyers, CEOs by now. What are you going to say? That you’re just a stay-at-home mom?”

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