What's this? Two updates in under a week? Don't get used to it :p

But seriously, I'm very sorry for the delays, and hope you like this! The action moves sideways, but it's (to me) the important and natural step for a lot of the characters.

Let me know what you think! Thanks so much for reading.


Sloan

You have to pick the places you don't walk away from — Joan Didion

When Sloan was maybe fifteen, her father had given her a piece of advice she'd never forgotten: They were all at the dinner table, eating, but mostly listening to Spencer prattle on about some seventh-grade mean girls and beg for tips on how to make them like her. Their father, calmly chewing his peas, finally said, "If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em."

Sloan had been shocked, mostly because she'd never heard her dad say more than hell or sometimes a hissed goddamn in the past, and always on the phone. He was kind and gentle (well, as kind and gentle as a Goldman vice president in Asia in the 90s could be) and she'd never seen him lose his temper or raise his voice. He got stern, sure, but this was entirely something new.

Spencer's jaw dropped immediately, while her mom hissed Thomas and Sawyer, who was maybe seven, said, "What's fuck?" Sloan herself had started laughing.

What I mean," her father had then explained, "is that if you've thought about it and you've tried and you can't figure out a way to win — and I'm not talking that it's a competition, Spencer, when I say 'win' I mean to achieve your objective — then who cares about their rules? Stop. Stop caring. You can write a new the terms. Make them your own. You need to take control of a situation, and that means adjusting something. Now that something might be internal, like your attitude, but it might not be. But it's no use sitting here, complaining. If you can't beat them …" he looked warily at his wife and caught himself, "screw them." And Sloan was the only daughter old enough to understand, but he clearly meant screw in two different ways. She suddenly saw her father in a slightly more ruthless light.

But it was liberating advice. Redefine the terms. To be fair, Sloan was naturally gifted enough and pretty enough — even then, even at her most awkward, she was pretty enough — that she could usually triumph playing by the rules. She got the grades, made the friends, cracked the jokes, won the prizes, easily enough. Too easily, even. But redefine the terms. She loved that. It allowed her to be ambitious in ways that girls weren't; adventurous and assertive in situations where she typically would not have been either. It got her through high school, college, internships, fellowships, her Ph.D., her years at Goldman, her jump to ACN, her marriage to Don. She had always redefined the terms, made the decisions that she wanted to. High school wasn't what she expected? She enrolled at Berkeley at sixteen. The professor she was dating went back to his wife? She got into a better Ph.D. program than he went to. IMF passed her over for an internship? She went to Treasury, rocked it, and was offered a job by the IMF two years later — and turned it down. Asshole fiance cheated on her? She left Goldman and him and found a better job and a better partner. The idea of moving in with another man terrified her? She would wait until they'd married to move in with Don— but got married four days after getting engaged and ten months after the first date. She moved through things, she aspired, she reinvented, she persevered. She rewrote what success meant to her. She never lost. She redefined the terms.

But now it was difficult to frame the terms of the debate advantageously. One of the things she's always loved most about her relationship with Don is that, while both of them are plenty insecure, they never doubt the other's abilities and potential. When she loses faith in herself, she knows that Don has faith in her, and that — that matters. She's never doubted Don; never doubted his integrity, his honesty, his strength, his potential, or his commitment to her.

But now, she doubts him. She doubts his ability to make this better- and fixing things, handling things, is where Don's bread is buttered. It's all he wants. And she doesn't know how to act, either. She's an all-star, she's dazzled on her own merits since preschool. She's absolutely unused to the notion that her professional life was entwined with her father's and husband's, and it offends both her patrilineal Old New England work ethic and the meritocratic grit her first-generation-American mother had instilled in her.

Kenzie thinks her reluctance to take the job is about trust, but it isn't. At its core it's about practicality. She's already put herself in a tight spot by stepping back from primetime for the kids (she'd sidestepped a demotion by going to Bloomberg, another example of her framing the terms of the debate advantageously), and there's no prenup for a work marriage between her and Don. If this fails, she's left with nothing; he'll still be the crown prince of a network and she's in journalistic Siberia. Plus, there's the day-to-day of working together, the endless negotiations of who is in charge when and why and what's going on. It will be a lot of talking and — probably — a lot of equivocating. On both their ends. It will grind on them, she knows, wear down the solid foundation of their relationship. Besides the opportunity to return to financial journalism, Bloomberg had offered room for her marriage to grow.

So they linger for far too long in the tension between worry and resolution. They make it through a long Labor Day weekend at Mac and Will's beach house; they make it through the first day of school; they make it through two business trips and eighteen-hour days and scraped knees and Emerson coming down with a cold and Max smacking his head falling on the playground. This makes sense though, because no matter what they are a good team. In secret, she begins to plan a blowout for his 40th birthday. Nothing crazy, nothing like Will's 'retirement' party, which she can honestly say is the most absurd bash ACN has ever thrown (though it was a pretty bitchin' time — she ended up doing shots with Mia Farrow after dancing till her feet hurt with Allison Williams). She wants something more low-key, something thoughtful and personal and at their home. But she wants him to know that she loves him; besides, no matter how uncomfortable and awful things are with them right now, she thinks he deserves it.

She calls Reese up directly and says she needs more time to make her decision — at any rate, the earlier it's feasible for her to break her contract is January. The pecuniary penalty is far less bad if it's after the New Year. He sighs, and says, "Just for you." She wants to ask if it's because of her or Don, but she bites it back in case she sounds paranoid.

She doesn't want to talk to him, but this tension isn't doing either of them any favors. So one night after they've handled bedtime, she sighs and says, "We need to talk," as they do the last of the dishes. She hates bringing up awkward things before she's worked out what she wants to do— even now, years and children later, she flushes just thinking about the awkwardness with Don after she let him know she was interested — but she hates feeling off-kilter more. Besides, isn't that the point of marriage? To talk to them about whatever you want?

He nods, his eyes relieved. "Yeah," he says. "OK. Do you want any wine?"

"I have Scotch, actually," she says, lifting the glass from where she'd discarded it behind the basket of fruit. "I … poured it earlier," she explains weakly.

He shrugs. "Is that Charlie's?" He swings the bottle down from the shelf, scoops up a tumbler of his own. "Wanna go on the terrace?"

She's about to say no — the kids — but ends up nodding. Clem pads out behind them, settles on the cement in a far corner as they side side-by-side on a loveseat. The city is still August-hot, and she immediately feels faintly as if she's being smothered by wet towels. But there's some breeze (or radiating smog), and the lights and sounds of the city are comforting in the flickering dusk. She listens to the heaves and honks and trills of ambulances as she sips her Scotch, the ice cubes clinking together noisily.

"Alright," she says. "So let's talk."

He laughs, almost ironically. "Oh no, Sloan. You first."

She pauses, her lips pursed. "I think I might be mad at my dad," she confesses, the words practically tripping out of her in a burst that surprises her. Then she sighs, because that makes sense. "And since I can't be mad at my dad, I'm being mad at you instead," she admits.

He's clearly surprised — that's not where he saw the conversation going. "Sloan, you can be mad at your dad. I've seen you two argue for three hours —in Japanese — about African economic policy."

"That's it — we can argue about economics," she stresses. "We can have intellectual debates. But I never — I've never been mad at him, not about something real. He's my dad." Sloan's self-aware enough to know that her admiration of strong men starts with daddy-hero worship.

He's quiet, and she realizes why. "Dads can disappoint you. They do it a lot, actually. You're lucky that you've gotten this far." She reaches over and wordlessly squeezes his hand before lacing their fingers together.

"I know. I'm lucky. Just like our kids will be." He pulls their linked hands together and kisses the back of her hand. Her eyes darken. "But I don't know how to talk to him. I don't. To tell him that I'm angry that his job is fucking me over."

"Well, I think you have to call him up. Or maybe go down to Washington. But if it's bothering you, you either have to tell him, or have to get over it and let it go. C'mon, Sloan. That's the peewee leagues of social interaction." His words are encouraging, not condescending. He clearly thinks there's more to it.

"I know," she sits back, then changes her mind and curls over, putting her head on his lap. His hand drifts to her hip. "Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome," he replies, and waits for her to continue. When she doesn't, he says, "Wait. Is that it? That can't be it."

"What else do you want me to say?"

"I dunno. I mean … Are you going to talk to him? And I'm confused, Sloan. You're mad at your dad, which I get, I do, but I'm not sure how that impacts the job offer. Or us."

"I don't like having my hand forced," she explains, sitting up. She's always been independent; he gets her. "That's upsetting me, that it's coming at a time when I'm mad at him. I don't want to make this decision because I'm mad at my dad."

"Then don't. Let's talk about the salary. Or your vision for covering news. Or if you want the option of teaching again, and how you could make that happen. I'm trying to help you make the decision, Sloan, but you're making it tough."

"My options are to be in a position where I'm compromised because of my dad's job, or get one where I'm compromised by my husband's. And that's just objection number one to ACN right now."

"Take me out of the equation," he says. "Just … look at the job. What do you get?"

"I can't take you out of the equation," she says, then switches tactics. "Walk me through a day."

"A day?"

"Yes. A day. Where there are business and ethical decisions that need to be made. Where news has to be covered. I'm not talking preferential treatment — I'm talking the type of everyday disagreements that will happen in a world where you're head of news, and I'm an anchor — high-ranking, sure, but there's Elliot and Aaron and Will and Terri. Plenty of us. I want to know what that day, where I am an anchor and you are my boss, would go." She raises her eyebrows expectantly.

"Sloan, I don't think I ever showed you favoritism or cut you slack as an anchor when we were working together. You're good. I know that. I know you. I trust you."

"OK, but we disagreed, and we got into arguments. Not all the time, but sometimes. And you were not my boss, and now you would be my boss. Tell me. How. A day. Would go."

He gawps like a fish for a second. "I dunno, you would probably want to go in a little earlier than me, I would guess, I would come in later … I'd work on my floor, you'd work on your floor …"

"There's a big news story. A … ferry sinks off the coast of New Jersey, and I think we're covering it too much. You might, too, but it's bringing our biggest ratings of the last six months. But I say I'm not going to cover it any more. What do you do?"

He shrugs as he struggles to come up with an answer. "You would seriously do that?"

"Yes! I have before." He knows that. She tries again. "Or, I go soft on the Treasury Secretary since I know he can't do jack the Congressional deadlock, and you think I should've gone harder. Or I think the new social-media initiative is stupid and have an AP tweet for me. Or I think I should lead with a story about the stock market but everyone else leads with a presidential candidate saying something legitimately stupid about Israel/Palestine, and we have the low ratings that day, or I say the n word on camera quoting an asshole Tea Partier. Or we're arguing about which kindergarten to send Max to, and just can't have a conversation about ratings that day," she takes a deep breath. "You think this is still about trust and while I was a little skeptical, I'm not now. I believe it's not favoritism, and I'm sorry for doubting you. I'm just concerned about the practical stuff. I know you'll have my back on the big stuff and I know we'll generally genuinely agree, but it's just … it would be hard, the little stuff, day in, day out, for five or ten years. It wouldn't be the big stuff. The big fights are never about the big things; they're about a million little things. We would never have space. When you were an EP and I was a correspondent, whenever we worked together we argued. And that was fine! That was good! I like that we think different things and aren't afraid to disagree. But given how much of a micromanager you are and how much of a high-maintenance perfectionist I am, day in, day out, I can't see that being healthy for us. I think it will grate. And then, yes, you layer on the fact that I'm contemplating a switch because my dad's career fucked me over, then yes, I am hesitant. If this doesn't work out, Don, I'm finished in news, whether or not I want to be. I need a game plan. I need …," she pauses, because she's unexpectedly teary, "I need you to be cynical. At the very least, a realist. You're not a cynic, but you are a realist, and you're not being one right now. I need you to be one."

He's quiet, and she realizes that she's finally gotten through to him. "It would be hard," he agrees. "I don't know how we would navigate those situations, honestly. I don't. Day in, day out, I don't know. I don't, and I'm sorry if that's not enough of an answer."

Sloan feels like yanking her hair out, slowly, strand by strand until her skull is puffier than a Pomeranian. "You're the planner, and this, of all things, needs a plan."

"Ok, yes, I like details, but for god's sake, Sloan, I'm a producer, not a planner, which means that after something gets started, I figure out how to navigate out of a situation. Yeah, I don't know how we'll get out of each of those situations; yeah, it'll be tough balancing the personal and professional; yeah, these are not normal problems. But I think this is a good job opportunity for you and I don't want you to talk yourself out of it. And you know what? I think we're pretty good, generally. Yes, we'll argue. Some days more than others, even. But I've always loved working with you. Hell, I loved working with you before I loved you, and I love it even when I hate it. And even though we weren't working with each other, we were in pretty close proximity for four years. It's not insignificant. I think we can make this work. And, I promise not to give you any preferential treatment. Zero. Hell, I'll send you on a long-term assignment to Malaysia if that will help. If you want to do this, I think we can make this work. But, Christ, you have to want to, and right now I'm not sure you do."

Staring at him, all wide-eyed and crazy-haired and baldly earnest and so essentially Don, the exacting, pessimistic, hopeful-beyond-reason man she married, she wants to believe him, to say yes, to think about the job on its merits. She's struck. "Please don't ever send me to Malaysia," she finally says. Then she leans back against the armrest of the loveseat. "You're asking a lot," she points out.

"I know. I'm sorry. So are you."

"I know. But it's a big thing," she says. There's a beat. "I need to talk to my father," she admits.

"I think you do too," he agrees, tugging her back so her head rests on his chest.

The next Saturday, she gets up way too early and grabs the Acela to D.C. She intends to work on the way but ends up just dozing: When does a mother of three ever get time alone? By 11, she's in a cab to her parents' home on the border of Georgetown and the Palisades. Sloan hasn't told her parents that she's coming, and she's extremely surprised when her sister, Spencer, answers the door.

"Sloan! Oh, my god." Spencer moves in for a hug. "Mom and Dad didn't say you were coming."

"I didn't call them, actually," she admits.

"Is everything ok? The kids? Is Don dying? Are you dying?" Spencer, a high-school teacher and principal turned the chief of staff for the D.C. school district, is bubbly, excitable — and easily distracted outside work. She watches too much local news, and her mind immediately jumps to the worst places.

"No. No no no. I just wanted to come see them and decided it on short notice so I decided to make it a surprise. That's all, that's it. Are you … pregnant again?" she asks, astonished. Spencer is typically willowy, like her, but is noticeably thicker around the middle. And it wouldn't be surprising. Spence and Brent always wanted a big family.

Spencer smiles, proud of herself. "I am. Fourteen weeks."

"Fourteen? I didn't know."

"Yeah … We didn't tell Mom and Dad until last week. It's … complicated."

"Complicated?"

"Yeah. I'm older now —"

"You're thirty-six. I had the twins when I was thirty-six. Is everything OK?" Spencer is maddeningly vague.

"Yeah. It's fine. I just didn't want to tell anyone right away, since I'm no longer thirty — or even close to it — and then I didn't want you all finding out through Mom, but it's been busy at work, so I haven't had a chance to call. Anyways. Are you pregnant? Is that why you came down? I didn't think you wanted more kids, but I noticed when I caught your show last week that your dress —"

"Don't you dare even finish that thought. No I am not pregnant. Where are Mom and Dad, Spence?" she smooths her shirt over her still pretty flat stomach, just to reassure herself.

"Relax. I was just going to say that I noticed you were wearing a shift and you only wear shifts when you're pregnant, or so it feels like. I thought it'd be nice, being pregnant at the same time. And Mom went in to Foggy Bottom. Dad is at the park with the kids, but they should be headed back soon. Are you sure everything is ok? I feel whenever you're in DC, I only find out from watching you interview the president the next day. Or from your Twitter feed. Or Mom."

Sloan feels a twinge of guilt. While she is exceptionally close to her parents, they cultivated four only children. She's not particularly close with any of her sisters, and Spencer's not close to the twins (who are their own, twinned-up entity) either. Sloan emails all of them rarely, calls even more infrequently. It's gotten worse as she and Spencer had families and the younger two moved halfway across the globe to chase fabulous careers. She's pretty sure, actually, that Spencer and her family could move continents and she wouldn't know unless a parent pointed it out. She definitely was the last to know when Sawyer took a job in London. It makes some sense: They are all fully their own women, pursuing their goals with abandon and ambition, exactly like their parents wanted them too. She was never bothered by it, but now it gives her pause. It's certainly not something she would wish for her own children.

"No. I needed to talk to Dad about a job offer and …" she trails off.

"That's awesome. Still in TV? Or in economics this time?"

"Yeah. Back at ACN, actually." she kicks the ball of her left foot into the tiled floor. It doesn't scuff. Huh. Good floors.

"How's Don liking being back? He's been there a couple months now right?"

"Since May, yeah, Spence. Listen, it's stupid. And kinda complicated."

"You know, I have the exact same number of college degrees that you do. You can explain it." Spencer's mouth quirks up, and Sloan suppresses the urge to point out that a Master's and a Ph.D. in education do not add up to two Ph.D.s in economics.

"No, it's not that. It's just …"

"Complicated?" Spencer asks archly.

"Well … Yeah. It is, in fact, complicated."

Spencer rolls her eyes and smiles. "Well, you won't get to talk about it for a while, then. You want something to eat? And how are the kids?"

Their combined seven and a half children are enough to keep conversation flowing for the next half hour, when their father returns with Sloan's nieces and nephew.

"Aunt Sloan!" Hanna, the oldest, careening to a stop when she sees her. She's lanky for nine, with the lighter coloring of her All-American father, Brent. Her mouth hangs open.

"How did you get in here?" Harper, the next oldest at almost-seven, says. She looks absolutely confused by the situation. Sloan's temporarily worried about her chances at getting into a good college, before she remembers that Brent's an adjunct at Georgetown, which has to count for something. "Grandpa, Aunt Sloan's here!"

"Hey guys," she smiles, wishing she didn't have to deal with Spencer's brood today. Having her own children didn't make her good with children; it made her a mother. "I came as a surprise, for your grandfather. But I was surprised that I got to see you too! I'm very excited."

"Sloan?" her father says, shocked, as he enters with Brendan, who is four like Max, and two-year-old Haddie. "My darling." His giant hands cup her face and he kisses her forehead. "To what do we owe this pleasant surprise?"

"I just … wanted to come down. And see you," she smiles.

"And you didn't bring my lovely grandchildren? Did I not raise you right?"

"Well, it looks like you still got some granddad action today."

"Yeah, Grandpa, you still got to see us," Hanna pouts.

"You, Hanna Grace, are the only reason that I am not throwing myself to the ground, kicking and screaming and crying, after finding out how grievously your Aunt Sloan has disappointed me," he says, totally deadpan but with a twinkle in his eye.

"You're silly, Grandpa," Brendan laughs.

Spencer grins, then stands with two crisp claps. "Alright, Popovec children. We have some soccer practice to get to. Say bye to Grandpa and Aunt Sloan and let's get going."

"Wait, where are Max and Emmy and Annie? Why can't we see them? We haven't seen them in like fifty years," Harper groans.

"Not fifty, dummy, you're not even fifty. If you hadn't seen them in fifty years how would you know them?" Hanna points out. Sloan smirks.

"Harper, don't whine. Hanna, don't call your sister names. They're in New York with Uncle Don. We'll make a trip up to visit later this fall, OK? Brendan, where is your coat?"

"Um, in the park?"

"Or the hallway, buddy," Sloan's father says.

"Or there," Brendan admits sheepishly.

Spencer and her crew leave in the same whirlwind they came in with, and there's a void of noise with their automatic absence.

After a beat to savor the calm, her father's brow furrows. "Is everything alright, Sloan?"

"I – yes," she says. "Yes. Everyone's alright. Nobody's — nobody's dying. Or even sick; the kids and Don are great, actually. And Don and I are great. I mean, it's hard, marriage is, sometimes, but overall we're good. We're solid."

"That's not what I asked."

"I — no, but that's important. Someone shows up unexpectedly on your doorstep, you gotta wonder if everyone's ok."

He studies her, then double-taps his wedding ring against the tiled island. "I wasn't worried. If something were truly wrong you wouldn't come down here first. You would call. We would go up."

He's right. "Good point," she concedes.

"Caught yesterday's show. Good analysis of the changes to the antitrust laws."

"Thanks," she says.

"Ok. Wanna go get ice cream?"

"Ice cream?"

"Your mother is going to be at work for a while. I'm assuming that, even if nobody is dying and you're not getting a divorced, something dragged my successful, busy, mother-of-three-small-children daughter down on a train on a Saturday, and I don't have a good feeling about that something. It feels like something that you tell me and your mother at once. So I'm not worried, Sloan, but I'm sure as hell concerned."

She looks down at the table, feeling fifteen again. "I got a job offer."

"What?" his brow furrows. "That's great."

"Yes and no," she says. "It's at ACN. I'd be reporting to Don, essentially."

"You two have worked together before."

"We worked at the same office before. I didn't report to him. And … you can't tell anyone, Dad, but there's a good chance he'll be promoted to president of ACN. Not president of ACN News. The whole damn network. In the next few years."

"OK…." he says. "It is … a lot more money?"

"It's a raise, but it's not life-changing," she says. "And at this point, the salary doesn't matter. Money's nice, but whatever."

"So don't take the job, if you don't want it."

"Yeah, there's a problem with that. I'm being … I'm being increasingly marginalized at Bloomberg. They're concerned that your job presents a conflict of interest."

"I'm sorry?"

"They're concerned that the fact that their lead anchor's dad is on the Fed is a conflict of interest. Can't say I don't see their point."

"So you don't want to stay there?"

"I got into journalism to help people better understand the economy. I can't do that now. It's not really up for debate."

"And I'm guessing by your tone you don't want to take the ACN job?"

"Because the thing I absolutely want to do after getting aced out of my job due to my father's job is to report to my husband for the next twenty years of my career."

"Then go to another network."

"They have the same objections as Bloomberg." She's done some scooping.

"Ok … Then if you're unhappy, go teach economics at Columbia again. Or write a book. Or stay at home with your kids. You just said; money is 'whatever.'"

"What I want to do is be an anchor."

"Then be an anchor, Sloan. You have an opportunity and you need to make the best of it. Did you come down to … pout? Sloan. Grow up. You're better than this."

"Hey. That's not exactly fair. Right now, your job is actively interfering with my ability to be a journalist."

"Sloan. I didn't know that, and I'm sorry about that. I love you."

"I am your favorite daughter."

"I don't have favorites," he gives her a pointed look, which she doesn't blame him for (though she totally knows she's the favorite).

"I love you but …" she prompts him, since she knows where that's going.

"There's not but. I love you. All of you, the same way Don does. Not the same way Don does, but you get the point. But —"

"A ha!"

"Fine, yes. There's a but. You are one of the most ambitious, accomplished people you know. I'm so proud that I get to say I raised you, because that makes it seem like it might be something I did, instead of something you were innately born with. But you don't like when things get hard, and you've been smart enough to always have other options."

"What are you talking about?"

"When you didn't like high school, you left for college two years early, despite your mother's and my objections. When you got into that relationship with that married professor — don't think we didn't know about it — you went to Duke instead of Stanford, even though Stanford had a much better program, because you didn't want to be near him. When Topher cheated on you, you left Goldman. I'm not saying that those weren't good decisions, that made sense to you, and I'm not saying that they didn't work out for the best and you didn't learn from them, and you didn't become stronger. But you don't like when things are hard. This might be hard, but it sounds like you're unhappy where you are and it's a good option. It's not perfect but it's good. So take it."

She gasps. "I was redefining the terms!"

"What?"

"I was redefining the terms. Making my own choices, moving on. If you can't beat them, fuck them."

"I actually have no idea what you are talking about."

"It was your advice. When I was … I don't know, fifteen!"

"OK, I don't remember this at all. I was raising four daughters; half the time I was making up shit to keep your sisters calm."

"What? Dad! We took you seriously!"

"I think it sounds like generally good advice, but it's also important to distinguish between when you're redefining the terms and when you're running because things are hard. And when you redefine the terms, that means you adjust your attitude. You don't do it … with some sort of chip on your shoulder, or because it's a less risky choice. You do it because you want to do it."

She's quiet. "Why did the take the job?"

He laughs. "Have you ever been asked by the president for anything?"

"President Obama asked me for gum once."

"When the President asks, you don't say no. You say 'I serve at the pleasure of the President.'"

"Ok, Jed Bartlet," she says, then takes a deep breath. "I don't like the lack of agency here. I don't like having my hand forced, and I am genuinely worried about working together so closely."

"Sloan. You have a private-school education, two Ph.D.s, an apartment in Manhattan, and are talking about a salary that's over a million dollars. You have plenty of agency, not to mention privilege. You're not a heroine in a Kate Chopin novel."

"And you're not some noble Henry Fonda character. You've never been interested in domestic policy or the Fed. Why'd you take it?"

"Sloan —"

"It's fucking with my life and my career. So I think I deserve to know."

He shrugs one shoulder. "A couple reasons. I was at the end of my contract and I like a new challenge. The president did ask, it's not something you turn down easily. But a lot of it was your mother had a great opportunity, and if she took it and I stayed in Palo Alto we wouldn't see each other much, and when you realize you don't have that many years left, you decide you want to spend them with the people that you love. I had to make a choice, and I gave up a great job to privilege my relationship with your mother. She followed me to Japan and made the best of that when you guys were kids; now I followed her to D.C. I'm not saying that it wouldn't be hard to have Don be your boss. But if you think it's going to give you a better deal than Bloomberg, then why the hell not give it a shot? You're one of the hardest workers I know; I think you can make it work."

"If it fails, I'm out of news."

"First off, I have plenty of faith that if you wanted a different job, you could get it. But if it fails, you know that you tried and you gave it your all. I know I'm the one that taught you risk forecasting, Sloan, but just because there are risks you're aware of doesn't mean it's not your best option, or that you shouldn't take that chance. And it doesn't mean you wouldn't be great at ACN or Bloomberg or writing a column for the New York Times or whatever you decide to do."

"What if —"

"Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good," he says, then brightens. "Oooh. That's good advice. I'd remember that one."

"I wish you had at least told me ahead of time this is something you were thinking about."

"I am sorry for that. I didn't think through how this would affect your job, though in retrospect that seems obvious."

There's really not much more to say about that, and her anger toward him dissipates, releasing like helium seeping from a leftover birthday-party balloon. She's built an entire situation in her head, but it's gone, every argument planned and had and discarded and modified. Now the only thing left to do is move forward. She nods when her dad asks her if she'd like him to call her mom, and the three of them grab ice cream and walk through McLean Gardens before she hops a cab to Union Station. She spends the train back handling details of Don's birthday party next week, and is back home by five.

Don texts that he and the kids are at Hippo Playground, and she joins them there. "Mom!" Max yells, jumping off a hippo and hugging her, getting her completely wet in the process. "We missed you all day."

"I know, I'm sorry," she smiles. "But I'm back now! Can I still play with you?"

"Of course."

"Swings, Mama," Susannah insists, and they head toward the tire swings. Don, holding Emerson's hand, is right behind her.

"Good talk?" he asks.

"Great talk," she smiles.

"So how was your dad?" he asks, much later, when all the kids are in bed and they're splitting a half bottle of pinot grigio.

She hesitates. "Good," she says, measuredly. "We should have them both up more often." Don hums in agreement as he sips his wine. "Do you think I run from challenges?"

"What? Hell no. What did your dad say?"

"Not, like, work challenges. But … personal challenges. He said that when I got scared, I tended to run, and then rationalize it. I … He had a couple of good examples."

"Like what?"

"Quitting Goldman. Going to Duke instead of Stanford. Going to college early because I hated high school. He thinks I don't face personal problems head-on. He's not wrong."

Don contemplates. "I don't think … I wasn't there for any of the decisions, so I can't really make a call. But when you have options, you usually do the one that seems most insane, except according to your internal projections. Does that calculator involve a bit of self-preservation? Probably. Mine does too. Everyone's does — nobody likes getting the shit kicked out of them; nobody really likes risk and uncertainty. And it's not like any of those situations were easy. Most of them sucked majorly. If he said that I think he was underestimating how hard starting over can be, too."

"There was one time I didn't," she says, musing, then smiles.

"What are you talking about?"

"After I told you I was single because you'd never asked me out. I should've quit then."

He smiles before kissing her. "I for one am very glad you didn't," he takes another sip. "So what are you going to do?"

"I think I'm going to take the ACN offer." A happy smile starts to flood his face, and she says, "To be clear I'm going to give it a few more days."

"OK. Is that the staying option or the fleeing option?"

"It's the staying. It's the harder, riskier choice."

"It's your decision. I'm proud of you, you know that?"

And she does.

She spends the rest of the week thinking about her decision, and planning Don's stealth party. She's got caterers and an eighty-person guest list, and she's proud of how seemingly none of them have let anything slip to her husband. On Saturday she sends them out and lets in many, many guests — way more than she anticipated actually showing up. She's a bit nervous, but when Don — who fears surprises — walks in and is genuinely shocked and grateful, she's so proud and happy.

Those feelings are dashed, of course, when she inadvertently informs Alicia Harper about why her husband and Maggie had split. After Alicia, her voice all strangly and betrayed, asks Jim if Maggie was ever pregnant, he exhales slowly and says, "Yes. She was."

"With your child?"

"...Correct."

"Where the hell is the child now? Do you have a … three year old running around somewhere? Is it with Maggie? Is it here?" Sloan busies herself straightening Emerson's dress, catches Will's eyes as they drift up toward the ceiling in a holyfuckingGod motion.

"What? No. No, Alicia, I wouldn't hide that from you. We … There was a car accident, and Maggie lost the baby. When she was about six months along. There is no baby."

"That makes it worse," Alicia says, even though Sloan would dispute that. "Excuse me. Sloan, Don, thanks so much for your hospitality, but I'm going to head out."

"Alicia —" Jim starts to go after her as she storms out, but she spins around and says, "Not now, Jim," and he stops, watching her leave.

Mac swiftly steps up to slap him on the back of the head. "You arse," she says, and Sloan doesn't even have the heart to tell her not to swear. "What the hell, Jim? You didn't mention that Maggie was pregnant?"

"I didn't think it was relevant!" Jim says.

"How could it not be?" Sloan asks before she could stop herself.

"Tell me why it is," he argues back. "It's in the past, it's done."

"The fact that you didn't want to tell her is exactly why it's relevant!" Mac screeches. "You are a dense, idiotic, stupid man!"

"Mac, just because he's an unbelievable putz doesn't mean you have to get that sloppy with language," Will says drolly. "Come on, you're better than that."

"Hey, guys, Alicia just, like, ran past me — is everything alright?" Neal asks as he walks in, a nervous Maggie at his side. Surveying the group, he says, "Ok, maybe not. It's too late for me to back out of the room slowly, isn't it?"

"For you, oh yeah," Mac says. "Maggie, can you go, please?"

"Me? Go?"

"Yes. Please," Mac repeats.

"For crying out loud, I'm not a leper —" Maggie starts.

"Mags, can you please?" Jim says, and Sloan's heart breaks because he looks like he's about to cry just anticipating the beatdown from Mac. Maggie stares at her ex, nods and exits.

Mac waits a few beats until Maggie is well out of earshot. "Neal, can you explain why, hypothetically, it might not be a great idea to not tell your new wife that your last relationship ended with the death of your child?"

Neal does a double take. "You sure I can't … With Maggie? No? Alright."

"What the hell were you thinking, man?" Mac exasperates at Jim. "Do you seriously not understand why this might be problematic?"

"I … Yes. I do. Alright? I do."

"I have a party to chaperone," Sloan says. She knows when it is not wise to be around Kenzie, and this genuinely seems like something she doesn't want to be a party to. "I will leave you all to this, though. Enjoy."

"Yup, you know what? It's my birthday, and I'm … I'm gonna celebrate," Don says, also backing out of the room slowly.

"Can I go with them?" Sloan hears Neal ask as she leaves.

"No you cannot," Mac snaps back. "You stay too, Will."

Once they're safely out of the Mac Zone, she and Don share a furtive look, then she breaks into giggles. "I'm sorry. That's completely inappropriate. I just …"

"Yeah, that's pretty unbelievable," Don says. "He's a lot more fucked up than I gave him credit for."

"I feel sorry for him."

"Me too," he replies, absently running a hand up her arm. "Hey. Thank you for this. You didn't … This is a lot. You didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to," she insists, pressing a kiss up to him. "Happy birthday, Don."

They swirl back into the party, where Reese immediately finds her. "Hello to you too, Reese," she says, amused, after she nearly knocks him over.

"Nice party, Sloan," he says.

"Thanks. It's tough being me sometimes — brilliant economist, incisive newscaster, best legs on TV, attentive mother, and kickass party planner — but, hey, someone has to do it. What can I do you for?"

"You could come back to my network."

She smiles. "That's it? OK."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Reese grins, one of the pure grins she's even seen him grin. "Let's talk Monday."

"Let's talk Monday," she agrees.

It's not perfect. It won't be perfect. It, like most things past the age of twenty-five, past the age when you have family and priorities and obligations, is a compromise, is done to maintain some semblance of forward motion and purpose. It solves a problem and potentially creates twelve more. With it, she wins by losing. She pauses for a second to wonder when new beginnings stopped feeling like triumphs, like the universe was expanding itself outward for her, and started to feel melancholic — after all, now any new decision means that all the old decisions, pathways once full of promise, are closed to her, for now and for ever. But it is, she knows resolutely, her choice, and she's sticking with it. And that's enough.

Besides, it's not like she has any time to brood or contemplate or philosophize. She turns, and Maggie is standing beside her. "What's going on?" she asks.