On a nearby towel, a woman sitting cross-legged met Claire’s eyes with a look equal parts pity and resignation, as if to say, You won’t win this one. Claire let out a steady breath. “I’m not trying to tell you how to parent,” she said, gentler now. “I’m just asking for some consideration.” “Then consider moving,” the mother said, already turning back to her screen. “
There’s plenty of beach.” She resumed typing, the soft clack of keys an intentional ending to the conversation. Claire stood there a second longer, pulse in her ears, then stepped back toward her towel, the air between them tight and sour as the boy’s laughter carried up the sand.