Instead of hanging on Dad’s coattails, I’ve tried to make my own way in the world, wanting to succeed on the basis of my talent and reputation versus his.

“Was your husband relocated?”

My husband. Great. I love these kinds of questions. “No. I was transferred.”

“And he followed you out? There’s a good husband for you.”

I just smile, the small, close-lipped smile that I use for moments like these. I had plenty of them in New York when I’d take Eva for walks in her stroller and then again when I enrolled her in school. Does she look like her daddy or you? Her father isn’t listed on the emergency contact forms. Will her father be coming to the parent orientation? I used to try to answer all the questions, but it just got old and repetitive, and now I do my best to ignore them. “I’m lucky I have an interesting career.”

“What do you do?”

“I have my own advertising agency, Z Design.”

“That must keep you busy.”

“There are some long hours,” I admit, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and unsure why. There’s nothing alarming about Lana Parker. A dark blonde with hair swept off her face, Lana reminds me a bit of Faith Hill in The Stepford Wives. She’s pretty, quite pretty, but not quite real, either.

“I couldn’t work,” Lana says, lips pursing. “Not when the kids are little. They’re only children once, and I don’t want to miss a thing.”

This is why I was feeling uncomfortable.

I have to work—it’s not a choice—yet my work isn’t just a paycheck, it’s who I am, what I love to do. “I agree. That’s why I’ve made a point of working from home.”

“So smart. Because those full-time jobs are so hard on families and children.”

I don’t have a part-time job. I definitely have a full-time job, and I think Lana knows it. I think Lana’s being clever and slightly unkind.

“You’re very lucky you have such a supportive husband,” Lana adds sweetly. “He must really help pick up the slack.”

“Is that what men do?” I ask just as sweetly. “Pick up the slack?” Either Lana is living in la-la land or she’s just trying to push my buttons. Virtually all of my friends are married, and while most are still happily married and most would marry their husbands all over again, most also wouldn’t say their husbands make their lives, or their work, easier.

Lana blinks, taken aback. “Uh . . . well . . . I don’t know.”

Her expression looks about to crumple, and I feel a ping of remorse. “So how many children do you have?” I ask, trying to change the subject and move us into safer territory.

Lana grabs gratefully on to the new topic.