From the author of the book club favorite The Nine Lives of Rose Napolitano comes a riveting feminist thriller that tackles an unspeakable taboo: regretting motherhood.
When successful Rhode Island real estate agent Lucy Mendoza vanishes, leaving her baby behind in a grocery store parking lot, the news quickly makes national headlines. Lucy’s best friend, Michelle, is devastated, and terrified that Lucy’s life is at stake. But she knows something that could complicate the police investigation. Lucy had confessed something unspeakable: She regretted becoming a mother, so much that she’d fantasized about faking her own kidnapping. If the police and media were to find out, Lucy would become a monster in public opinion. Michelle is sure Lucy would never abandon her daughter. But could she be wrong? Could Lucy have been so desperate she chose to escape her life?
Donna Freitas has drawn from groundbreaking research to bring readers this unforgettable novel. Her One Regret is at once a pulse-pounding feminist thriller, a moving depiction of the realities of motherhood, and a rich exploration of a subject our culture and society have rendered nearly verboten: the possibility that for some women, motherhood is an unfixable mistake.
Release date:
November 4, 2025
Publisher:
Soho Crime
Print pages:
333
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Lucy unpacks groceries from her shopping cart, placing them into the trunk of her car on a sunny afternoon in September; a perfect, Narragansett Beach day. She holds the baby in one arm, safe and tight, as she shuttles bag after bag of eggs, milk, bunches of kale, baby gem lettuce, organic greens. The baby, Emma, leans into the top of her mother’s bare shoulder, her mouth wide and blowing raspberries against Lucy’s skin. Between bags Lucy runs her palm over her daughter’s fuzzy head, presses her lips against her baby’s skull.
“Momma is doing better, isn’t she?” Lucy says to Emma. Even Lucy can hear the strain in her own voice.
“Hmmm, hmmm,” Emma says, sucking away on her mother’s shoulder.
Lucy fits everything side by side in the trunk so the bags won’t fall over. She always ends up with eggs broken, milk cartons dented or spilled, stalks of rainbow chard snapped in half. Sam, her husband, says it’s the way Lucy drives, not how she packs the trunk, but he’s wrong. He’s wrong about so many things, lately. Including the biggest one of all.
Lucy needs to shove the last canvas recyclable sack into the spot where it will keep the rest of her purchases snug, but she needs two hands. She sets Emma into the seat of the shopping cart, then wedges the wheel of it against the wheel of the car so Emma won’t roll away across the lot of Belmont Market. She makes sure her baby is sitting just so, her body only a little slumped. Emma gets stronger and stronger by the day, back and neck. It does seem a miracle to watch.
“There,” she says to her daughter, who appears delighted by this new experience of sitting in a shopping cart. She kicks her chubby legs, bare toes curling, arms flailing, a happy little bee.
For a moment, Lucy stops. She takes in the sun above, the bright round yellow disk of it beaming down on the two of them, the slightest breeze rushing across her skin and her long, red hair. The world stills. No one else hurries across the lot, no cars drive the aisles. There is only Lucy and there is only Emma, mother and daughter. She looks at her baby, Emma’s mouth wide and smiling, so tiny and fragile and soft, eyes so big. She takes in the beauty of this perfect little being, and her heart breaks.
She turns away.
“Mommy loves you,” Lucy whispers into the trunk and all those groceries.
Part 1 — The First 48 Hours
1 Michelle
“I know that baby! That’s Emma!”
Michelle Carvalho races across the parking lot yelling, trailing cartons of yogurt. They spill out of her bag and splat open on the steaming asphalt, white ooze on black tar. A protective crowd has formed around the little crying darling, all of them women. Sirens wail in the distance; someone must have dialed 911.
Which is, of course, what one does when a baby is found in a parking lot.
The trunk of a nearby car is open, full of grocery bags.
Lucy’s car. Lucy’s groceries. In Lucy’s canvas recyclables.
Michelle reaches the crowd and dumps her shopping bags to the ground. She stretches out her arms toward Lucy’s baby. “Emma, sweetheart, where is your Mommy? Where is Lucy?”
Emma is wide-eyed and quiet, settled against the body of one of the women. Older, gray-haired, maybe a grandmother. She watches Michelle with suspicion. She doesn’t move to hand Emma over. “Who are you?” she asks Michelle.
The crowd of women tightens around this newest addition, grocery bags slung over shoulders, plopped onto asphalt, tipped over by feet. The sirens get closer. Another woman, blond-haired, tall, plucks a peach from the top of a bag and holds it to Emma’s mouth. Emma leans forward to suck on it. Soon Emma is squealing and sucking the sweet flesh, slurping the juice. A few of the women chuckle. The scene would be adorable if not for the absent mother of the happy baby.
Michelle’s eyes scan the group, trying to make contact, to convince them she is not a foe. “I’m Lucy’s best friend. Lucy is this baby’s mother.”
The gray-haired woman nods but still doesn’t offer Emma to Michelle. Michelle takes in the state of this body before her, this fit older woman in leggings and a tank top. Shame washes over Michelle. Maybe when her own two boys are older, she’ll have the will to get back into shape.
A dark-haired woman with a worried look turns to Michelle. “Do you know where your friend is? Where she could have gone?”
This startles Michelle into action. She shakes her head. “Why don’t I just call Lucy? That seems like the logical thing to do, right? Because I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this.”
Fear unspools through Michelle for the first time since she came upon this strange situation that is her friend’s baby abandoned in the parking lot of the local Belmont, surrounded by a huddle of random women in workout gear.
Where could Lucy be?
Hands shaking, Michelle pulls the phone from her overstuffed bag, stuffed not only with her wallet and car keys, tampons and used napkins and Ziplock bags of cheerios, but also a pound of coffee and a crackling package of strawberries that couldn’t fit into her reusable shopping bags at the checkout. Plus a small carton of half-n-half wet on the bottom with milk. A jumble of needs piles up in her brain. She should call the babysitter to say she might be home late, she should call David to ask if he can come home early from work in case the sitter can’t stay; shit, that half-n-half is going to get all over everything in her bag. The most urgent need wins out, which is Lucy. Michelle clicks on Lucy’s info and calls her, something she hasn’t done in a while. Usually they text—constantly, about everything. Recipes, comments about their day, random thoughts about the meaning of life or its lack thereof. Memories from college, from their life before getting married and having children. Frustrations and annoyances about their husbands, David and Sam.
The phone is hot against Michelle’s ear. Everything is sticky and humid, the summer heat refusing to break even though it’s September. Lucy’s line rings and rings, but no answer. Only voicemail.
The women stare at Michelle.
“No luck?” one of them says.
Michelle shakes her head. “Let me try again.”
She does. This time one of the women puts a finger to her lips to tell the group to shush even though no one is speaking. She bends forward and points under a nearby SUV.
That’s when Michelle sees a small, flat object vibrating on the ground. “Oh my god, is that Lucy’s . . . ?” Once more, Lucy’s line goes to voicemail, and the phone under the SUV stills. Michelle takes a deep breath and hits send to restart it ringing.
The phone under the SUV jumps to life, a steady buzz.
“Oh god, oh no, no, no, no!” Something icy rushes across Michelle, despite the heat.
Another of the women heads toward the SUV. Soon she’s flat on the ground and reaching. She stretches her arm and there, she’s got it, the vibrating phone is in her hand. She crawls out again; gravel and sand cling to her loose black T-shirt dress. She holds up her prize, waves it at Michelle. “Is this it? Is this your friend’s phone?” She hustles back to the group.
A hole opens in Michelle’s middle. She glances at Emma.
“Hmmm, hmmm,” Emma hums as she sucks on that dripping peach, face a mess of sticky, yellow flesh.
The phone case is unmistakably Lucy’s. Michelle was with Lucy when Lucy bought it. “Will you be embarrassed if I buy something so girly?” Lucy had asked. Michelle laughed and said, “Of course not, get what you want. Who cares if it’s pink and polka-dotted? I like pink. I like polka dots.” But when Lucy offered to buy Michelle one so they could have matching phones like two best friends in middle school, Michelle shook her head. “I love you, Luz, but maybe not that much.” Lucy had wrapped an arm around her friend’s middle and squeezed, told Michelle, “I always knew I was the one who loved you more,” and they laughed.
A fire truck screams into the parking lot, followed by another, followed by an ambulance, followed by a few police cars. Emergency vehicles galore, sirens wailing. Michelle thinks in passing, Charlie would be in heaven, all his favorite trucks are here, then pushes this thought aside.
Several women in the crowd jump up and down, flagging down the vehicles.
“I’m going to try Lucy’s husband,” Michelle informs the group, some of whom still look at her with suspicion. “I swear we’re friends,” she hisses as Sam’s phone rings on the other end. “Lucy was over at my house for dinner two nights ago,” she can’t help adding, even though it’s strange to discuss dinner at a moment like this.
Sam’s line goes to voicemail.
“Come on, Sam,” Michelle mutters. She shakes her head, annoyed, then remembers she has an audience. She tries Sam again. It rings and rings and she huffs. This time she leaves a voicemail: “Sam, call me NOW, this is an emergency.”
Next, her thumbs go to work. CODE RED, EMERGENCY, she types, Emma needs you, PLEASE CALL ME. ASAP!
The ambulance, the fire trucks, the police cars pull to a stop nearby. Men, all men it seems, begin pouring out of these siren-topped vehicles, spilling forth and coming their way. Men in uniforms equipped with belts and pockets and hooks on which to hang the tools of their trade, guns and batons and hoses, crackling radios, frightening metal objects for puncturing tracheas and restarting hearts.
But there is no body to help or bring back to life.
There is only the absence of a body. Lucy’s body.
And the presence of a baby.
One giddy, peach-covered baby.
A policeman walks up to the older woman holding Emma. “I’m Officer Fiske. Now tell me what’s happened.”
Oh, Michelle thinks, swallowing hard. This is a crime scene.
“Did someone take Lucy?” Michelle asks out loud. Until this moment, her brain has kept Lucy safe from this terrifying thought. From going to the most upsetting place of all.
Yet another of the women leans toward Michelle, puts a gentle hand on her arm. “I hate to say it, but it’s looking like your friend might have been taken,” she says. “I mean, I’m trying to think of other explanations, but . . . I just can’t.”
Michelle’s legs give way and she collapses to the ground.
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