I spent $3,870 on my twin daughters' twelfth birthday party.

By Wednesday, the high-octane emotional energy of Sunday had settled into a brittle, awkward routine.

Tessa’s new bedroom remained Spartan. She refused to put up any of the floral wall decals she had shared with Molly, opting instead to tape a single, glossy poster of the US Women’s National Soccer Team above her desk. Molly had spent three days rearranging her remaining furniture, covering her walls with sketches of costume designs and theater stage layouts.

The mountain of presents was still stacked by the front door.

Every time David walked past it, he winced. Every time I looked at it, I felt a sick knot in my gut. Aunt Clara had called three times. Uncle Rob had sent David a text asking if the girls had received his Amazon package. I hadn't answered anyone. I didn't know what to say.

Then came the school emails.

At 2:15 PM, my phone chimed with two consecutive notifications from Oakridge Middle School.

The first was from Mrs. Gable, the drama department head:

> *Dear Bennett Family, Molly’s performance in the preliminary callbacks for "Into the Woods" was exceptional! We would love to offer her the role of Little Red Riding Hood. Mandatory dress rehearsals begin next Tuesday, with opening night on Friday, November 17th at 6:30 PM.*

The second email was from Coach Miller:

> *Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, Tessa has been selected for the regional qualifying soccer match! Due to weather reschedules, the match will take place on Friday, November 17th at 6:00 PM at Northside Athletic Complex.*

I dropped my phone onto the counter as if it had burned me.

Friday, November 17th.

6:00 PM in Northside—thirty-five miles north of town during rush hour.

6:30 PM at Oakridge Middle School—right in the center of our neighborhood.

For the past four years, our family calendar had operated on a strict, unbreakable rule: *If they can't do it together, we don't do it at all.*

When Tessa had wanted to try out for weekend gymnastics in fourth grade, I had said no because Molly preferred swimming, and driving to two different sports facilities on Saturday mornings was "unfair to the family schedule." When Molly wanted to join the junior choir, I made Tessa join too, which resulted in Tessa deliberately lip-syncing the words while staring daggers at the choir director.

Now, the universe had handed us an impossible fork in the road.

The girls walked in the front door at 3:30 PM, their backpacks thudding onto the foyer floor. Molly’s face was flushed with excitement, her eyes shining in a way I hadn't seen in months.

"Mom!" Molly gasped, dropping her jacket. "Did Mrs. Gable email you? Did she?"

Before I could answer, Tessa stepped past her, kicking off her muddy cleats. "Coach Miller said he sent the roster out during seventh period. Did we get Northside?"

They both looked at me, standing in the foyer, their expectant faces glowing with separate, completely distinct dreams.

"Yes," I said slowly, looking between them. "Mrs. Gable offered Molly the part of Little Red. And Tessa, you made the regional roster."

Molly let out a squeal of pure joy, jumping up and down on the hardwood floor. Tessa pumped her fist, a rare, uninhibited grin splitting her face.

For five seconds, the house was filled with pure triumph.

Then, Tessa’s smile froze. She looked at Molly, then back at me. "When is the play, Mom?"

"Opening night is November seventeenth," I said quietly. "At six-thirty."

Tessa’s face fell. "The regional match is that Friday. At six."

The silence returned, cold and suffocating. Molly stopped jumping. Her shoulders dropped, the radiant light vanishing from her eyes, replaced by that familiar, resigned dullness that made my heart ache.

"It's okay," Molly said, her voice instantly dropping into that quiet, accommodating tone she always used when she was preparing to give up. "Little Red has an understudy. Sarah Jenkins can do opening night. I’ll just do Saturday matinee so we can go to Tessa's game."

"No," Tessa snapped, though there was no anger toward Molly in it. "You've been practicing that audition song for three weeks, Molly. You sang it in the shower until my ears bled. You're not giving up opening night."

"Well, you can't miss regionals, Tess! You're the starting center back!"

"I'll sit on the bench!"

"Stop it," I commanded, stepping forward.

Both girls looked at me, their eyes wide, bracing themselves for the inevitable parental compromise—the compromise that always left both of them feeling cheated.

"Nobody is sitting on the bench," I said firmly. "And nobody is giving up opening night."

Tessa frowned. "Mom, Northside is forty minutes away. You and Dad can't be in two places at once. Grandma always said—"

"I don't care what your grandmother said," I interrupted fiercely. "I will be at the auditorium sitting in the front row for Molly’s opening night. And your father will be on the sideline at Northside cheering until his voice gives out for Tessa."

The girls stared at me as if I had spoken in fluent ancient Greek.

"You're... splitting up?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"We are dividing and conquering," I said. "Because you are two different girls with two different talents, and you both deserve a parent who is one hundred percent focused on what you are doing, instead of checking their watch to see when we have to rush to the other person's event."

Tessa shifted her weight, looking down at her muddy socks. "You won't get to see me play regionals, Mom."

I walked over to her, knelt down so I was looking directly into her dark eyes, and placed my hands on her shoulders. "I will come to your Saturday game. But on Friday, your dad will take a thousand videos, and I will watch every single second of your match the moment I get home. And next time, David and I will switch. But you will never, ever have to forfeit your life for your sister again. Do you hear me?"

Tessa’s lip quivered. She didn't hug me—she wasn't ready for that yet—but she gave a single, firm nod.

"Okay," she whispered.

Behind her, Molly let out a shaky breath, pressing her hands against her cheeks. "I'm Little Red Riding Hood," she murmured to herself, as if finally allowing herself to believe it.