Editor’s note: I’m trying something new here today. With one notable exception, Beyond the Rhetoric has been completely nonfiction. But, I’ve always thought about dabbling in fiction, particularly short stories. Or fiction inspired by real life events. So, here goes nothing. Be gentle in the comments.

“They’re so cute together.”

She was right. They were cute together, happily collaborating on the construction of their fairy home. Really, the two girls — aged 5 and 8 — were just shuttling some gravel over to a grassy patch, forming a neat pile of rocks. But, they were having a great time. They were happy and that’s all that mattered. The playground was otherwise empty, so it was good they were able to enjoy each other’s company.

And us, at that moment, we were on equal footing too. Quite literally, actually, standing in the same pile of wood chips next to the swings. We were just a couple of parents watching our kids play together. At least, in that moment, nothing else mattered. But, as our idle little chat continued, I started to realize just how different our lives are.

“Isn’t it great when kids can get along like that?” she asked. “And it’s even better when they get to enjoy an outdoor playground like this.”

“Totally,” I agreed. “Gotta get out to enjoy this weather before it starts raining again. We all start developing a bit of cabin fever after being holed up these past few months.” I did like getting outside again, especially since it wasn’t so chilly anymore either. The girls continue to laugh and giggle with one another, adding a fairy bed to that fairy house. They were in their own little world.

“Yes, isn’t it great? My husband is just over at spin class at Astral Fitness down the street, so I thought I’d take Arabella for a short walk to the playground and soak in that sunshine.” The mom casually continued, “But we always enroll the girls in several winter activities anyhow. I don’t believe in parents having to entertain their children, so I’d rather they just go out and do something. They take ski lessons every year. They love it. We just got back from Maui a few weeks ago too.”

“Oh, ski lessons. That’s nice. Yeah, we don’t do that,” I think to myself.

“So, I guess you live in the area?” I say out loud.

“Not too far from here. The girls go to Green Meadows Academy, which is great. You know, like just on the other side of Everwood Crescent in Glenmorgan? But, it is a bit of a drive to get them there and back. That’s one thing with not going to a neighborhood school, though, since they don’t really make friends with the other kids who live around here,” she says. “But, then my husband can drop me off at the subway station on the way so I can get to school in the morning too. He’s currently unemployed, my husband. Well, he has a business, but he’s been on a sabbatical for… what, almost two years now? For mental health. It was too overwhelming. It’s been great having him home so much. How about you? Day off?”

“Oh, a fancy private school,” I think to myself. All while you’re in school and your husband is on sabbatical. And ski lessons and a Hawaii trip. That might be nice. Those feelings of comparison start flooding in and I really start to think like we’re not really on the same level anymore.

“I work from home,” I say. “So, I’ve got some flexibility in my schedule for this sort of thing.”

More like because I can work at any time, I feel like I should be working all the time. Then, maybe we’d be able to afford ski lessons and private schools and two-year sabbaticals. I hate this feeling. I shouldn’t feel this way. Just look at our daughters out there. They know nothing of this world, and they’re happy to get along with anyone. And it’s not like I’m not getting along with this mom either. We’re just not at all the same kind of people. Not really.

“Arabella! it’s time to go! We’ve got to start walking home so we can make dinner!”

“Okay mom!” she bellows back. “Bye, see you next time,” she says to my daughter.

“Well, it was nice chatting with you,” the mom says to me.

“For sure, you too. Enjoy the rest of your day,” I reply. She smiles. We part ways. We have to get home to make dinner too.

I’ve heard many times before that comparison is the thief of joy. Maybe that’s true. But only if you let it happen. That afternoon, at the playground, despite our differences, we were on equal footing. As my daughter and I got into our midsize SUV, as I settled into those heated leather seats and queued up a playlist on my iPhone XS, I couldn’t help but think that we were just two parents shooting the breeze while our kids made fairy homes.

All that other stuff, all those surface details? They don’t really matter.

Unless you let them. I can do better.