“I think I just met the happiest person in the world,” Rachel exclaimed—clearly sarcastic—as she shook off her black trench coat and kicked off her mauve suede boots. She paused briefly to glance in the hallway mirror, quietly pleased, after all, with the outfit she’d chosen that morning. She walked into the living room to find her husband, Brad, still on the couch, eyes fixed on his phone as he scrolled through social media with practiced detachment. He was in the same position she’d left him in earlier, when she went out to pick up their single-origin coffees from the artisanal bakery down the street. 

“I’ll have two single-origin Guatemalan pour-overs, medium grind, please. Oat milk.” Rachel had learned the order by heart—not out of love for the coffee itself, but because it carried just the right air of sophistication. A person who drinks with such clarity and intention clearly knows how to savor life, or so Rachel liked to believe, just before a voice interrupted her self-reverie. “Rachel! I haven’t seen you in so long. How have you been?”

It was Claire, the wife of one of Brad’s friends — second wife — with her unmistakable yet oddly indistinct blend of English and French accents, the thickness of which seemed to depend entirely on how many overpriced glasses of wine she’d had. So very European, as Claire never failed to remind everyone.

Rachel wasn’t exactly annoyed to see Claire — just annoyed to see her without warning. Encounters with Claire required mental preparation: a quick inventory of all the curated highlights Rachel and her husband had been accumulating—projects started, trips taken, rooms redecorated, lifestyles refined. From Rachel’s perspective, small talk with Claire could quickly turn into a silent competition, and Rachel always felt compelled to prove that their life was more vibrant, more exciting, more lush—just generally better and happier in every conceivable way.

“I’m great—just really busy with work since we got back from our trip to Peru. It was _amazing _by the way. Honestly, one of the best trips we’ve ever taken. The people, the food, the weather—everything was just perfect. A wonderful way to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. We’re so happy… and next month, we’re heading to this charming little island…” Rachel launched into a flurry of details no one had asked for, her voice bright with effort. In reality, the weather had been terrible. She hadn’t cared much for the local food—not even the single-origin coffee—and to make matters worse, she and Brad had argued more than once over the exhausting, unresolved question of whether to have children. But none of that could make it into the story. Not now. Not with Claire. 

“How about you and James? I can’t even remember the last time I saw you two. And, as you know, I’m not really on social media, so I’m always the last to hear any important updates.”

Another lie.

Rachel had been stalking Claire’s life through Brad’s account for months. The last post she dissected—more than once—was a glowing tribute to their sixth wedding anniversary, complete with a cringe-worthy caption about how their marriage was a feminist act. _“A promise that neither of us would be led or left behind, but that we would move forward, always together.”_ Rachel had rolled her eyes so hard it nearly gave her a headache. _Give me a fucking break_, she’d thought at the time. 

Claire launched into her personal highlight reel with stunningly polished ease: a recent promotion with a generous raise, an upcoming getaway to a vineyard in Sonoma, tickets to a three-day music festival, a dinner party she was hosting to raise funds for the unhoused community—and, to top it all off, she had just wrapped up a 30-day yoga cleanse, which, she noted, had done wonders for her inner peace—and her complexion. “All this happiness is just such a privilege—I’m so grateful,” Claire concluded, her eyes glassy, visibly moved by the sheer joy of her own existence. Her brows drew together in that exaggerated way people do right before saying “aww,” though in this case, it was directed not at a puppy or a child, but at her own life. 

“Well, I’m so happy for you! That all sounds absolutely wonderful”, Rachel replied.

A brief pause.

What else could she possibly say? Rachel hadn’t expected to run into Claire and she obviously wasn’t prepared for it. Her vacation in Peru now felt embarrassingly underwhelming. It deflated in her mind like a balloon pricked mid-float. Had she—yet again—lost the race? Just minutes earlier, she had felt enviably ahead: expertly ordering coffee in a chic café nestled in her up-and-coming neighborhood, radiating confident ease. But now, through Claire’s eyes, she saw something else entirely: A woman in her late 30s, dressed with effort but little effect, sipping pretentious coffee, rattling off tired travel destinations. A woman clinging to the illusion of sophistication. In short: a life that was not glamorous, not enviable, just disappointingly average—in comparison to Claire.

Her mind raced, frantic, searching for something, _anything_, that might put her in a different category entirely. Not something better, necessarily. Just something beyond Claire’s reach; something she couldn’t imitate, replicate and improve, or casually add to her own achievement parade. Rachel didn’t need to win. She just needed to make the game irrelevant. To find something that would make her _incomparable to Claire._

“We actually wanted to wait to share this, but… Brad and I are going to be parents!”

There it was. The trump card.

Parenthood—the one experience Claire and James had, _voluntarily_, excluded themselves from. In that moment, standing in line for coffee with oat milk and overachievement in the air, Rachel made the announcement. Not because she was ready. Not because she wanted to. But because it was the one thing Claire could never counter.

Motherhood: visceral, all-consuming, unreplicable. A transformation so profound it would create an unbridgeable gap. Claire would never be able to claim it, never be able to say she truly _understood_.

Their lives, from this point forward, would live on separate planes. No longer parallel. No longer comparable.

Checkmate.

Claire and Rachel exchanged polite goodbyes, buffered by the usual choreography. Claire’s theatrical congratulations, an exaggerated flash of joy, and even a quick hug. As they parted, the refrain echoed once more, as if on cue: “I’m _so_happy for you!”

At home, when Rachel finally managed to get her husband’s attention, she handed him the nine-dollar coffee with proud, almost gleeful flourish. “I think I just met the happiest person in the world,” she said again. “And I beat her.”

Only a couple of months later, Rachel did become pregnant. She spent four hours perfecting the layout of their social media announcement and thirteen more designing the printed cards. Every font, hue, and word was deliberately chosen. The result wasn’t meant to be merely beautiful—it was meant to be a testament. A carefully crafted declaration, designed to convince the world—and perhaps herself: “_I am_ the happiest person in the world.”