My nephew jumped into my son’s birthday cake while the candles were still burning. Then he shouted, “Mom said you’d laugh—and then I’d get a new iPhone!” Ninety seconds later, I canceled every payment keeping their perfect life alive.....

January 1, 2027, arrived with a hard, blue-sky frost that made the icicles hanging from the fire escape look like rows of jagged crystal daggers.

I stood at the window with my morning chicory coffee, watching the neighborhood sanitation workers salt the intersection of Fifth and 86th. Across the street, the metal security gate of Bakery Bros was rolled halfway up, and old man Kostas was out front sweeping away yesterday’s slush with a stiff-bristled push broom.

My business phone—the landline on the wall—rang at exactly 9:00 AM.

I picked it up.

"Barrymore Bookkeeping," I said, my voice crisp and professional.

"Maggie?"

It was a man’s voice. Deep, slightly breathless, with a faint trace of a southern accent that I hadn't heard in four years.

My grip on the receiver tightened.

"David," I said.

My ex-husband. The man who had packed his yoga mats into a Subaru Outback in November 2022 and driven south toward the Rockies to "find his authentic resonance," leaving behind a half-empty apartment, a mountain of credit card debt, and a heartbroken four-year-old son.

"I didn't know if you’d still be at this number," he said, clearing his throat. "I’m... I’m calling from Denver. Happy New Year, Maggie."

"What do you want, David?" I asked, cutting straight through the pleasantries with the efficiency of a tax guillotine.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear the faint sound of wind chimes in the background—some yoga studio porch in Boulder, no doubt.

"I heard... through your mother, actually—we spoke briefly on Facebook—that things have been difficult with the family," he started, his tone carrying that familiar, unctuous warmth that used to make me second-guess my own sanity. "And I was thinking, now that Theo is getting older, maybe it’s time we talked about re-establishing some parental contact. I could fly out for a weekend in February. We could—"

"David," I interrupted, my voice dropping into that low, flat register that brooked zero argument.

"Yes?" he said, sounding hopeful.

"Theo doesn't remember you," I said plainly. "And the last time you contributed a single dollar toward his shoes or his breakfast cereal was forty-eight months ago. If you want to talk about parental contact, you can call our family court lawyer in downtown Brooklyn. His retainer is five thousand dollars upfront. You can wire it directly through his portal."

Another long silence.

"Maggie, you’ve become... awfully cold," he stammered, his righteous indignation flaring up like an old match. "I was trying to do the right thing as a father—"

"No, David," I said. "You were trying to clear your conscience before the new year so you could feel like a good guy in your meditation circle. Don't call this number again."

I hung up the phone.

I didn't slam it down. I placed it back on its cradle with a quiet, deliberate click.

Theo walked out of the back alcove, rubbing his eyes, wearing his gray flannel pajama pants and his favorite blue socks with the yellow dinosaurs on the heels.

"Who was on the phone, Mom?" he asked, yawning.

"Wrong number, buddy," I said, kneeling down to straighten the cuff of his pajama pants. "Just some guy from out of town looking for a different bookkeeping firm."

"Did he need help with his taxes?"