Now he couldn’t walk fifteen feet upstairs to see if our son’s fever had broken.
I carried Sam’s untouched juice cup down to the kitchen. David was leaning against the counter, laughing softly into the phone.
“I’ll call you back in a bit, okay? Love you too.”
He hung up and looked at me like he’d just remembered I lived there.
“How are they?” he asked.
“She’s been through a lot.”
“Sam’s at a hundred and two. Ellie threw up again.”
“Poor guys.”
He opened the fridge. That was it. That was the whole conversation about our children.
“Your mom good?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“She’s just lonely, Rach. You know how she gets.”
“I know how she gets.”
He caught something in my tone and turned to me. For a second I thought he might actually see me.
You can handle things. She can’t.
“Don’t start,” he said instead. “She’s been through a lot.”
