TARA
Anyone free for a coffee date? I’ve got some free time to kill.
The message landed in the WhatsApp group with a heavy thud, and Tara immediately regretted sending it. She considered deleting it but then the group would get that telltale This message was deleted, and that would raise more questions than just leaving it there.
She wasn’t even sure she really wanted company. It was her first time going out alone since having the twins, and she didn’t quite know what to do with herself. She had hoped one of the other mums in the group might offer insight or at least some company.
It was her first time alone, and yet, somehow, she didn’t want to be.
Or maybe she had just forgotten how.
She sat in the car, still parked in the parking lot of their apartment, the engine off. She wondered if Jem was watching from the window, trying to see where she was going or if he assumed she’d already left. A part of her wanted to go back upstairs, take the stairs two at a time, shut herself inside the claustrophobic apartment, and hide in the closet until she felt like herself again.
But the nurses had told her to leave the house more often. Fresh air was good for her mental health. Jem agreed.
She had showered early today, even put on a wig(her hair was an eyesore) and applied lipstick and when she’d looked in the bathroom mirror, she’d almost looked like herself.
She should have been grateful, really, that she had a partner who cared about her well-being. Especially after having babies.
Babies.
Sometimes, she still couldn’t believe she was a mum. And to two.
Whew.
She remembered the panic she’d felt when the sonographer had said:
“Ooh, I hear two heartbeats.”
She’d gripped the sheets in shock, frozen. Jem hadn’t been with her at the ultrasound; he’d been away on a work trip (a work trip!) They had argued about it, like they always did. She had accused him of not being emotionally present for the pregnancy. He had just glared at her, shaken his head, and walked out to the patio with his laptop and a cup of coffee.
Tara refreshed the WhatsApp group and saw a new message.
So jealous. What is free time?!🙁
She smiled. Cleo. Of course.
Cleo had two kids, three years apart. Her youngest was seven months old, just a couple of months older than Tara’s twins. That’s how they’d met: at a downtown mum group. Cleo was Nigerian, although her parents had moved to Canada when she was five or six, Tara couldn’t remember. Cleo had the kind of honey-warm personality that made people flock to her without even meaning to.
How are the kids? Tara typed back.
Feral. Mandy is teething, so…hard times. Axel is on a strictly green diet. That’s hectic.
Tara laughed softly. She suspected Cleo’s three-year-old, Axel, might be on the spectrum but of course, she’d never say so. Maybe he was just a child with particular tastes.
Then came another ping.
Sorry babe. #working
Esther.
The final member of the group. She called herself a content creator, but Tara didn’t entirely buy it. When they’d first met at the mum group, Tara had asked what she did for work.
“I’m self-employed. An entrepreneur,” Esther had said smoothly.
“I’m transitioning,” she’d added.
Tara had raised an eyebrow. Transitioning could mean a hundred things these days.
“I’m a content creator. I do social media influencing for brands,” Esther had explained, slipping a pacifier into her baby’s mouth. “But I’m pivoting to family, lifestyle, and motherhood content.”
Tara sighed and stared at the screen. Twenty minutes of her alone time had already passed. Should she just go back upstairs?
What had she even done with alone time before she had the girls?
Her brain felt like it had been stuffed with Styrofoam. She couldn’t remember what it was like to be by herself before all this. She glanced at the backseat.
Did one of the girls just cry?
No. She was alone. The car seats were empty.
She sighed again, this time deeper.
What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she act like a normal person? Just drive somewhere and enjoy herself?
Her phone rang. Jem.
For a moment, she hoped he was calling to ask her to come home. That he needed her. That he couldn’t do it alone. She tapped the green button, lips already forming a response.
“Babe, I can’t find any burp cloths,” his clipped voice came through the speaker.
“They’re in the third drawer in their dresser,” she said.
She listened to him rummage through drawers. In the background, she heard the twins gurgling, cooing. Her chest tightened with longing.
“Got it,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Starbucks,” she lied before she could stop herself.
How pathetic would it sound to admit she hadn’t even left the parking lot?
“Cool. Okay. I’ll let you go, then. See you soon?”
“See you soon. Kiss the girls for me.”
They hung up.
Neither of them said I love you.
Of course, they loved each other; they were raising children together.
But she couldn’t shake the thought: Was raising kids together enough?
She turned the engine on and finally drove to Starbucks. She might as well turn the lie into truth.
She hadn’t been a coffee person before moving to Canada. Not before she met Jem, but when she met him, this older white man who was sophisticated and interested in her (in her!), she’d been dying to impress him. So, when he asked her out to coffee, she had said yes, I love coffee, and forced herself to ignore the bitter undertone as she sat across from him, talking about her life.
After the date, when it was settled that there would be a second date, Tara had made it her mission to acquire a taste for coffee. So, every morning, on her way to work at the accounting firm, she stopped at Starbucks (yes, because they were supposed to have the best coffee), and ordered their macchiato, extra cream, and extra sugar. By the time she and Jem were ‘serious’, Tara had acquired a taste for macchiato specifically, and then claimed she drank coffee, but the macchiato was her favourite. It became part of her story.
Should she have seen it then?
That bending her appetite to fit his was only the beginning?
The smell of coffee and pastries hit her nostrils when she walked into Starbucks. It wrapped around her like a warm scarf. Familiar. Comforting.
Behind the counter was a familiar face: Farah, a Persian barista who had once asked Tara for tax advice after learning she worked in accounting.
Farah’s face lit up.
“You’re back!”
“Yes, I am.” Tara smiled. Her shoulders dropped a little. She hadn’t been in there since she had the girls four months ago.
“Baby good?”
“Yes. The babies are good.”
“Babies? Two?”
“Yes.” Tara resisted the urge to pull out her phone and show off the twins.
“Good for you!” Farah tapped the counter. “Your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
Farah started keying in the order, then glanced up.
“Breastfeeding?”
“What?” Tara blinked, not sure if she heard the question.
“Formula or breastfeeding?”
Tara hesitated, trying to read the look on Farah’s face. “I don’t…why is that important?”
The lightness she’d felt when she walked in evaporated like steam off a hot cup.
“You know…” Farah winked.
Tara didn’t return the gesture. Something prickled beneath her skin.
“Please… my order,” she said. Her voice was tight, firmer now. She avoided turning to look at the other customers. Suddenly, she just wants to get out of there.
Farah’s smile stayed fixed as she gave the total. Tara swiped her card and moved to the pickup counter without another word, willing her heart to stop hammering.