That weekend, Maya was invited to a playdate with a girl named Harper whose parents owned a three-story house with a trampoline and gluten-free everything.
I arrived with Aliya and Jaya in tow, armed with store-bought brownies I had absolutely passed off as homemade. The other moms were already in athleisure gear, doing light yoga stretches in the living room while sipping kombucha.
"Would you like to join the stretch circle?" one asked.
"I already did Pilates. With Satan. This morning," I said, which was technically true.
Aliya disappeared with the other kids, and I was left doing my best downward dog next to a woman named Skylar who had matching tattoos with her son.
"What do you do for self-care?" she asked.
"I stare at a wall and whisper obscenities until bedtime."
Skylar nodded
