First-time visitors to the monthly pop-up ‘Scars Only Speakeasy’ were swiftly guided to a room adjacent to the entrance. There, a woman wearing a face mask and medical gloves ushered them to a well-lit spot in the middle of the room. Once in the light, the visitor would lower their skirt, shorts, or pants, including underwear, just a few inches. ‘Face Mask Lady’ would nod in approval upon identifying the C-section scar. She would go on to smile warmly and say, “Welcome to the Scars Only Speakeasy. My friend will guide you to the others.”

Evelyn had felt elated after ‘Face Mask Lady’ nodded approvingly. She relished the monthly meetings where mothers, having pumped breast milk beforehand, enjoyed delicate wines, sparkling prosecco, and the occasional cocktail. The exquisite canapés added to the exclusive ambiance. Laughter, disbelief, amazement, joy, indignation, and even occasional sobs and cries created a symphony of sounds bouncing off the walls, complemented by smooth jazzy background music.

As expected, each woman proudly boasted about her baby. However, this was balanced by shared experiences and complaints about healing C-section scars and the limited mobility it caused, breastfeeding pains, unhelpful partners, nagging parents or in-laws, and the challenges of working life. Evelyn wholeheartedly joined in on all topics.

As these evenings were ‘mommy-time’, no babies were allowed. Babies were presumed to be safely at home. If anyone asked, Evelyn happily showed carefully selected stock photos of a baby that she’d found online.

When she was here, everything else in her life disappeared into the background. Among these outwardly similarly scarred women, she could, once a month, fully immerse herself in the illusion of being a first-time mother with her newborn baby, a reality she knew would never be hers.

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“Grams, what is the correct length for the foundation chain?” Catia inquired.

Her grandmother rocked rhythmically in the colonial wooden chair. The chair emitted a soothing ‘squeak-squeak’ sound with each forward rock, creating a mesmerizing metronome-like effect.

“Grams?” Her grandmother had been lost in her thoughts. She turned to face Catia, her eyes lighting up with recognition. Catia exhaled in relief.

“Pardon me, I drifted off. Can you please repeat your question?” her grandmother asked, politely as ever.

“How many chains do I need for the baby blanket?” Catia rephrased.

Her grandmother rocked gently in her chair, the familiar squeak-squeak accompanying her words. “First, make a swatch, a sample” she advised. “You’re doing the chevron pattern with double crochet stitches, right?”

Catia nodded.

“Start with a chain that’s a multiple of 12 plus 2. Let’s say 24 plus 2 extra stitches. Crochet two rows. Once you’re done, measure your swatch to determine how many chains you need for the full blanket.” Catia nodded and jotted down the 12 + 2 rule.

Once she finished the swatch, Catia lifted her head to show her progress. Her stomach clenched as she saw her grandmother’s eyes rest on her face, fear evident. Her grandmother gripped the chair handles, her knuckles white. “Who are you?” she exclaimed in panic.

Catia quickly regained her composure. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Valle. Your husband Ricardo asked me to keep you company while he’s at work. He’ll be back shortly. I was just about to fetch the lemonade you always prepare for him. It’s on the top shelf of the fridge, right?”

Her grandmother relaxed at the mention of her familiar routine. “Yes, Miss, that would be nice.”

Fighting back tears, Catia went to the kitchen. Perhaps tomorrow there would be another opportunity for a crochet class.

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I should tighten my abdomen. I don’t. I absorb every punch, my organs mangled.

I’ve known my opponent since we were eight, when we resolved to fight back against bullies.

Today, my longtime friend pounds into me, eyes dark with rage.

He only sees the man his wife cheated with.

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Born.

Single breath.

My life, concluded.

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“OMW” Mila texted.

“Same” Vivian replied.

After a while, Vivian texted. “Made it. Boat left. Where are you?”

Mila’s heart dropped as she realized she was too late. She spent weeks convincing her friend Vivian to be her plus one for the company’s sunset boat trip, followed by dinner and dancing.

Mila sent a crying emoji.

“WTF Mila! I’m stuck here with YOUR colleagues!” Vivian’s message ended with several angry emojis.

Mila could only stick around on shore, wait for the boat to return and practice her apologies.

Finally, the boat docked. Was that Vivian? Mila squinted.

Adan, a gentle, nerdy coworker was reaching for Vivian’s hand to help her disembark. Once on land, he twirled Vivian around and kissed her hand. It would have been corny if not for their beaming energy.

Mila relaxed. This could still turn out to be a fantastic evening.

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A highlight of my playdates is when I get to use my French mandolin, a kitchen utensil I’m particularly fond of. It’s a souvenir from my six-month culinary school exchange program in Paris. My fellow students and I divided our time between ecstatic nights out and long hours spent cutting, boning, gutting, cleaning, and preparing meats, poultry, fish, vegetables, and various other foods.

I acquired the mandolin during a short trip to Nice. As I wandered among the bustling market stands at the Cours Saleya, I spotted a craftsman selling handmade utensils. After striking up a conversation, confirming his ability to make tailor-made adjustments and placing my order, I continued my stroll through the narrow streets of the historic city center with a newfound spring in my step.

On the morning of my departure from Nice back to Paris, I hurried back to the market. The man handed over the mandolin. I inspected it from a horizontal angle, nodding approvingly. The man had beamed with pride. “This blade is sharp, with a tight angle. Other mandolins slice vegetables paper-thin. Not this one, Monsieur, this blade will slice a hair.”

He had been right. The slices are exceptionally thin. The mandolin extends the time it takes to scrape off layer after layer of human skin, muscle, and flesh before I reach the bones of my female playdates. Every now and then, their cries stop when they pass out. I have my ways to revive them. Ten fingers and ten toes, each a copious source of rapturous pleasure.

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“High five!” she said. The little boy stood on tiptoes to reach her hand, slapping his hand against hers. She stooped down to his level and pressed her fingers together.

“Baby five!” he shrieked, bumping his tiny pressed fingers into hers. The boy giggled with delight at their usual goodbyes.

When he laughed, which he often did, he exposed some of his already rotten milk teeth. She had urged the boy’s mother to buy a toothbrush. The mother did. The toothbrush disappeared within days, most likely nicked by a visiting family member or neighbor.

She reached her car and sighed. In her early career, she had bought toothbrushes and soap bars for some of her clients. Eventually she stopped. There were so many kids, so many needs.

“Poverty persists,” she thought, recalling how this boy’s young mother had once been one of the children she had given a toothbrush.

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She kept twirling incessantly in the opposite direction of Earth’s rotation.

She couldn’t stop. Exhausted, she breathed in the sour hospital smells.

Stopping meant giving in to the direction and pace of Earth’s rotational pull.

She wouldn’t give in. Light-headed, she struggled to maintain her balance.

Giving in, meant surrendering to life’s scripted path.

Following that path, meant facing the diagnosis. Nauseous, she battled the rising bile.

Facing the diagnosis, meant facing death.

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Line items 5, 33, 46, 62 and 78 were the ones he had to authorize. He had checked and double-checked each fabricated payee and its payment details.

These would be the final transactions. He would then reinvest the funds in stable bonds—boring bonds, as his wife would say.

They had married in their early thirties, taking out a considerable loan to satisfy her desire for a grand wedding in a historic building with a large garden, abundant flower decorations, and an open bar for their 500 guests.

In the following years, his thrill-seeking wife regularly cheated on him. At least one instance involved a lower-ranking colleague whom she seduced during a company retreat. That time, he made sure the guy got fired over some other triviality.

Dependability was what he was known for, trusted for, continuously promoted for. It didn’t grant him a faithful wife, but it did provide him with ample payment authorization limits at the company.

He knew she wouldn’t leave him. She thrived on the attention that came with being a pillar of society. A lifestyle funded entirely by his dependability.

He could not leave her because the tremor in his hands and the numbness in his left leg were getting worse every morning.

He had overinvested in the tropical hardwood investment project, silencing the warnings of his inner voice. He had been swept up in the “gung-ho” fervor of the carefully curated group of premium investors. A group so carefully curated, that except for him, all had one thing in common: they had been in on the scam.

Line items 5, 33, 46, 62, and 78.

As long as there was money, the prenup guaranteed her presence until his final, wheezing breath.

He clicked ‘Approve’.

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