CHAPTER 2 - EMPTY SEATS

Sera's POV

The light turned red. Of course it did. Every light in San Francisco had apparently decided tonight was the night to test my patience. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles looked like tiny white mountains.

"Come on, come on, come on." I whispered it like a prayer. Like if I said it enough times, the universe might actually listen.

Thirty-seven minutes. The dashboard clock glowed those numbers at me like an accusation. Oliver's play started in thirty-seven minutes, and I was still fifteen minutes away. If I hit every green light. If nobody decided to parallel park badly. If the world suddenly decided to be kind.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. I didn't look. Couldn't look. Probably Jonathan with another excuse. Another reason why Vivienne needed to be there. Always Vivienne.

The light turned green. Finally.

I pressed the gas harder than I should have. The car behind me honked, but I didn't care. Let them honk. Let them think I was some crazy woman weaving through traffic. They didn't know. They didn't have an eight year old boy who'd been practicing his lines every night for three weeks. Who'd made me watch while he jumped off the couch yelling "I can fly!" until I was sure he'd break something. Probably my heart.

Bush Street was packed. Why was Bush Street packed at 6:23 on a Thursday? I jerked the wheel right, taking Polk instead. The construction cones loomed ahead like orange soldiers guarding my failure.

"No, no, no!" I hit the steering wheel. Once. Twice. My wedding ring made a dull thud against the leather.

Eight years ago, Jonathan had slipped that ring on my finger and promised we'd be partners. In everything. But somewhere between then and now, I'd become the understudy in my own life. The one who worked behind the scenes while someone else took the spotlight.

A gap opened in the next lane. I took it.

Twenty-nine minutes.

My phone rang this time. Oliver's school number flashed on the screen. I fumbled for the bluetooth button.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Blackwood? This is Miss Chen from the drama department. I wanted to let you know the curtain's going up a few minutes early. Some of the parents need to leave for another commitment."

My stomach dropped to somewhere near my brake pedal. "How early?"

"Oh, just ten minutes or so. Will that be a problem?"

Ten minutes. She said it like ten minutes was nothing. Like it wasn't the difference between seeing my baby fly and watching him scan an empty audience for a mother who couldn't even show up on time.

"I'll be there." I ended the call before she could hear my voice crack.

Nineteen minutes now. For a play starting in nineteen minutes.

I ran the yellow light at Van Ness. Then the very yellow one at Larkin. The third one at Hyde was definitely red, but I was already under it before my brain caught up with my foot.

Oliver would be backstage now. Probably peeking through the curtain the way he did at home with the living room drapes. Looking for me. Always looking for me, even when I wasn't there. Especially when I wasn't there.

"Mommy, you'll sit in the front row, right?" He'd asked me this morning, Cheerios milk dripping from his spoon. "So I can see you when I fly?"

"The very front," I'd promised. "I'll be the one clapping the loudest."

The school parking lot was full. Of course it was. I circled once, twice, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. Nothing. Every spot taken by parents who'd actually prioritized their children's plays over authentication appointments.

Fourteen minutes.

I parked illegally. Half on the curb, half in the fire lane. Let them tow it. Let them write me a thousand tickets. Nothing mattered except getting inside that auditorium.

My heels clicked against the pavement as I ran. Actually ran. When was the last time I'd run anywhere? The security guard at the entrance looked alarmed.

"The play," I gasped. "Peter Pan. My son..."

"Auditorium's straight back, ma'am. Better hurry. They're about to start."

The hallway stretched forever. Bulletin boards blurred past, covered in construction paper dreams and fingerpaint futures. My shoes were not made for running. Neither was my pencil skirt. Neither was my heart, apparently, because it felt like it might explode.

I could hear voices from the auditorium. Children's voices. The overture starting.

No. Please. Not yet.

I yanked open the heavy door.

The auditorium was packed. Every seat filled with parents who'd gotten here on time. Parents who hadn't spent forty-five minutes authenticating fake Monets for women who thought my life was perfect.

I scanned the front row. Our usual seats. Third and fourth from the aisle, because Oliver liked to be able to see but not be too close to the speakers. They were occupied.

Jonathan sat in my seat. My seat. The one I'd sat in for every holiday concert, every spring recital, every everything since Oliver started school. He saw me and waved. Actually waved. Like this was normal. Like he belonged there.

And next to him, in his seat, sat Vivienne.

She wore a red dress. The kind of red that said look at me, I'm important. Her hair was perfect. Everything about her was perfect. She leaned over and whispered something to Jonathan, and they both laughed.

The lights dimmed.

I pressed myself against the back wall, trying to shrink, trying to disappear. But I couldn't take my eyes off the stage as the curtain rose.

The Darling children's bedroom appeared, and there was Oliver. My Oliver. In his blue pajamas with the towel cape I'd safety-pinned to his shoulders this morning. He looked so small up there. So brave.

He was holding someone's hand.

Vivienne must have volunteered to help backstage. Of course she had. She stood in the wings, just visible from my angle, holding Oliver's hand. Guiding him to his mark. The way I should have been. The way I would have been if I'd known, if anyone had told me, if I'd been included in the conversation about who would help with the play.

Oliver found his spot and looked out at the audience. His eyes went straight to the third and fourth seats. He saw Jonathan. He saw Vivienne. His face lit up.

He waved.

And Vivienne, from her spot in the wings, waved back.

I couldn't breathe. The wall was the only thing holding me up as I watched my son perform for an audience that thought someone else was his mother. As I stood in the back like a stranger at my own child's play.

"Mommy couldn't make it?" I heard a woman near me whisper. "That's her, isn't it? The one always helping out?"

She meant Vivienne. She thought Vivienne was Oliver's mother.

On stage, Oliver delivered his first line. Perfect. Just like we'd practiced. But he wasn't looking at me when he said it.

He was looking at her.