I admired the vining ivy for its tenacity, I suppose. It had a sort of inevitability that was strangely comforting. When the groundskeeper of the old factory was around, he was always at war with the vine. He had his victories, but it was a war of attrition. Now he is dead, and the smoke no longer issues from the smokestacks, and there is a chain-link fence around the wreck to discourage vandalism. The windows are broken or boarded up. The deep green net of the ivy sprawls unchecked along the south wall now. In its steadfastness, it has prevailed.

For some reason, I stop and take a photo of it that I will not look at again. A text

from my ex-husband. I’m late to pick up the kids. I begin to walk faster toward my car, and the humidity makes my cheap blouse stick to my body. I drive to the grocery store parking lot and only draw two middle fingers in my hurry. I am a worse driver divorced. He is there, leaning on his sedan. He looks unkempt and is nursing a nicotine pouch in his lip.

Hello Trevor.

Hi Beth.

The kids tumble out of the backseat to greet me. Austin is absentmindedly clutching a Happy

Meal toy. The fun parent. Four small arms wrap around my waist. I smile and then look at

Trevor. I believe I see regret in his eyes. A consideration for what was.

Say goodbye to your father.

Bye daddy!

Bye-bye, I love you.

He turns to me.

Take care, Beth.

Thanks, you too.

We pile into the SUV, and Jess helps Austin into his booster seat. Trevor waves, and the kids

return the gesture with their gangly little arms. They are so precious, like floppy fledgling birds.

The lack of mastery in their movements is purest dance. They dictate the rhythm of life.

How was your week?

Good. I did a standing backflip in gymnastics, and Theresa said I was the best in the class, and the other girls were all jealous.

That’s wonderful sweetie. Austin?

It was fine. James was mean to me and pushed me at recess, but I told on him, and then he got

‘spended.

I’m sorry honey, that doesn’t sound nice.

No, and we have to do subtraction now, and I don’t like it, but Cassie helped me with my

homework.

Who’s Cassie?

A nice lady that daddy says might be our new mo—

Jess tries to shush him, but she is too late. I feel myself stiffen and have no words. The car is silent, and my knuckles whiten on the wheel.

Mom, guess how many cartwheels I can do now?

How many?

Mommy, if daddy gets a new mommy, does that mean we’ll have two?

Really, Austin.

Jess the diplomat foiled again. I take a deep breath.

No, honey, that other lady isn’t your mommy. I carried you in my tummy, which is what makes

you my son and me your mommy.

So why does daddy say Cassie could be our mommy?

Leave it Austin.

It’s fine, Jess. Sweetie, your father is mistaken.

Okay.

He says “okay,” but I see on his face confusion and further questions, stifled. My mind has already crafted an image of Cassie. She is probably younger and does Pilates and is the fulfillment of all my shortcomings. Till death do us part. The ache of such a vow sundered. But not to Trevor. Bastard. But I am being unfair. People move on even if I don’t. I have Fleetwood Mac on the radio and the children are soothed. Players only love you when they’re playing.

At my apartment I make decidedly mediocre spaghetti and watch Austin and Jess exist. They are hypnotized by some nature documentary on TV and sit there rapt, soldiers at attention. We eat and talk, but I am not there. Cassie would have cooked the noodles al dente and so forth.

I put Austin to bed. He looks at me with curiosity in his face but thoughts coalesce.

I’m glad you’re my Mommy.

I love you so much.

And I break down, and I hold him so close. He does not understand, but pats me on the back

almost nervously.

I say goodnight to Jess and she asks me why I’m crying and I can explain only with a hug. The kids are asleep as I go to the bathroom to splash water on my face, and I look at my reddened, puffy features and suddenly don’t give a damn how they compare to Cassie’s.

Some weeks later, I am walking to my car, and I notice new signage on the chain-link fence around the old factory. A new restaurant is going to be built. Some renovation and cleanup is underway and I see that the ivy has been cut down. There is a lurch in my stomach. I don’t know why, but somehow I find myself kicking off my heels and clambering over the fence like a delinquent teen.

I run to where the stubborn roots used to send up new snaking emissaries in the wake of defeat. They have been thoroughly excavated, and I begin to weep as I stare at the wounds in the ground, and I weep all the more as I understand that my tears water nothing.

Isaiah Sasser is a sophomore intending to major in History.