“You want me to put this on. For your son. While my mother is lying down the hall.”
“I want you to remember he exists.”
“I know he exists. I’m married to him.”
“Andrew?” she said, as if I’d asked. “The poor thing has been alone every night for nine days.”
“He’s not alone. He’s at home with his daughter. He’s cooking dinner.”
“I want you to remember he exists.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“You came to a hospital to talk about your son’s bedroom?”
I don’t recognize this woman.
“Don’t be crude. I’m talking about your marriage.”
She raised her eyebrows, like a 17-year-old girl on a date.
I don’t recognize this woman.
“My marriage is fine.”
“Nine years, Lauren. You don’t let nine years go cold.”
“Nobody is letting anything go cold.”
“Andrew cooks. He does the laundry. He’s practically raising Sophie alone.”
