Parties had become a special level of excruciating in the last couple years. Especially during cocktail hour, when she had to hear "and this is my wife, Myla" ad infinitum, followed by the question "What do you do, dear?". Myla did nothing. She had to tell everyone that she did nothing.

The other wives did things. Whether it was PTA related or organizing expensive museum fundraisers, they did something. All Myla had accomplished in the last five years was holding herself together, which was a hallow accomplishment.

"You should definitely speak with Alison Wexler again."

"Hm?" Myla took another champagne flute. "About what?" She already knew "about what". This was going to lead toward the infamous "I can't run for mayor if you're doing nothing" argument. Apparently, the public cares just as much – if not more – about what a political candidate's wife is doing as the candidate himself, and Oswald "needed" her to look more involved with the city before making a move.

"It would be good for you to get involved in a nonprofit." Oswald stated matter-of-factly. "You're going to have a lot of free time eight months from now, with Emory starting school."

Myla snorted into her drink. Eight months from now she would having another baby. Another baby would mean her life would be essentially lacking in this free time he spoke of. Plus, if everything went her way, she would having this baby alone. No time for nonprofit work there.

"You're right." She agreed. "I do need to start doing something. Remind me to give her my number after dinner."

Oswald was taken aback by the sudden simplicity of obtaining the agreement. "Oh."

Why not go the extra mile? "What's her husband's name? I want to say Derick."

"It's...Bradly." His wife's attitude shift – while one-hundred percent welcome – was still odd.

"Right, right. Maybe we can set up a dinner." Myla suggested. "Like you said, we really don't host enough."

Even when you find yourself at odds with your spouse, even when you want to be as angry as possible with them, you will still find yourself looking at them and thinking just how lucky you are to have them beside you. This was one of those moments for Oswald. "That would be lovely."

Myla drained her glass, placing it on the next empty tray they passed. Two drinks was enough.

Halfway into a particularly boring conversation on the rise of sales tax, Myla's phone – that she had been careful not to look at during the party – buzzed from inside her clutch. She excused herself to an empty corner and answered it.

"Hello?"

Katie's voice was borderline frantic."Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Is something wrong, Katie?"

"Emory is...he's sick. He keeps throwing up."

Myla felt a twinge of guilt, but the news left her otherwise unaffected. "What's his temperature?"

"N-no fever," Katie stuttered, "he just won't stop vomiting."

"Okay." Myla sighed. "Okay. Give him a glass of ginger ale and put him in the shower. If he threw up on his bed, put him in the spare room across the hall, and, you know, get him little trash can with a liner in it."

"And then what?"

"Let me talk to Oswald. I'll call you back." She was already motioning for her husband to join her. "Just stop freaking out. I know Emory is never sick, but kids get sick, okay?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Something wrong, love?" Oswald asked.

Myla was sure to give him a proper look of concern. "It looks like Emory might have a stomach bug. Katie is panicking."

"Is he alright?" For a moment, he became almost as panicked as Celia had sounded.

"She says he doesn't have a fever..." She turned the phone over in her hands. "I told her to rinse him off and put him in the guest bed."

"Well, what do we do? Do we go home?" Myla really had meant it when she said Emory had never been sick – the worst the boy had suffered was a runny nose – and that was a result of crying from being denied ice cream.

"I was going to call her back, and tell her to call us back if he was still just as sick in an hour."

Oswald took a moment to think. They would miss dinner, sure, but they had been here long enough for introductions to take place, and there was little cause for slander toward worried parents leaving a party to tend to a sick child...He made a decision. "You should go home." Oswald told her. "I'm sure Emory is upset, and needs his mother. I'll be right behind you, as soon as I handle a few things here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Our son is the most important thing." Oswald smiled before giving her a quick kiss. "I'll see you at home."

Myla nodded slowly, careful not to look too enthusiastic.

"I'll see you there."