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for a run, grateful that I’d remembered to toss workout clothes into my luggage at the last second. I hoped a run would help alleviate my cramps too.
    Riding down the elevator with only my phone, my ID and the hotel key card in the waistband of my running pants, I realized how different my life was from what Margot’s had become. With an infant, she could no longer work late, go on a date or dart out for a three-mile run without having to make child care arrangements first. It’s why the lives of mothers always seemed so small to me. And yet another reason I sought to avoid that shrinkage. Jesse and I enjoyed our freedom. I enjoyed my own independence.
    Pushing through the lobby’s revolving doors, a whoosh of crisp late October air blew bangs out of my ponytail, but also helped awaken me. I began a light jog towards Central Park. The early morning crowd there was akin to what I’d see at Golden Gate Park back home: elite runners with water packs on their back, twenty-somethings sleepily walking Chihuahuas and Labradoodles, gardeners in brown city uniforms operating noisy lawn mowers and leaf blowers.
    About fifteen minutes later, I was mid-way through the Jackie O Reservoir loop when my phone rang. It was Sarah.
    “How’s your best friend?” she greeted sarcastically.
    I’d known Sarah for more than twenty years. We met while waitressing together in college when I was a junior at UC Davis and she was a senior at Sacramento State. We both moved to San Francisco after graduation and she remained my best friend there. As close as we were, she always knew that my Egan Academy friends, especially Margot, occupied an immovable place in my heart. She knew that Margot helped me become my best self back in the eighties, that Margot — and, by extension, Jean — had filled a gap in my life. They’d become the family who loved me unconditionally when I was certain my own family couldn’t.
    I’d texted Sarah from SFO the night before to let her know I wouldn’t be able to meet up for the Sunday morning coffee date we’d planned. I talked to or texted Sarah just about every day and saw her several times a week, far more often than I saw or spoke to Margot. But despite the contact and proximity, Sarah frequently joked that nobody could unseat my Egan friends. Over the years, between my wedding and Margot’s regular visits to San Francisco, Sarah knew and liked Margot herself. But she still teased me about a manufactured friendship hierarchy that Sarah — not I — had constructed. Whenever I visited Margot or vice versa and Sarah got jealous, I always assured her that she and Margot were both my “chosen sisters.” But it was a jealousy I could relate to. That’s how I felt about Rebecca too.
    Normally, I’d fire back at Sarah with a sarcastic comment of my own (“Keep trying, biatch,” or something of that nature). But I was too emotionally weary and too winded from my run to craft a snappy reply. “You know, I’d do the same for you,” was all I puffed out.
    “What, did you jog to New York?”
    “Nope,” I gasped, my chest tight. “Just running now through the park.” I slowed my pace so I could speak easier and catch deeper inhales. “What time is it there?”
    “Zero dark thirty.” Sarah always woke a half hour before her husband and two young kids to read the Chronicle and watch Good Morning America while sipping coffee in total privacy and quiet. “Why aren’t you with Margot?”
    “Oh my God, Sarah. What a mess.” I told her about the chaos of Margot’s place, about Jean’s weight loss and illness, and noted that I was deep into a problem that I questioned I could even solve — and I hadn’t even seen Margot yet. “I don’t get it,” I said. “My cousin had the ‘baby blues’ but got over it after a couple of months. Plus, Margot went to the ends of the earth to have this baby.”
    Sarah snorted. “That doesn’t make any difference. Don’t you know about Brooke