“So have I, David.”
“It’s different.”
I set the cup down before I dropped it.
“What’s different about it?”
“She’s my mother.” He said it like it explained everything. “You’re my wife. You can handle things. She can’t.”
Mom and I fly out Thursday.
I didn’t answer. I just watched him pour a glass of water and walk past me toward the living room.
His phone lit up on the counter. Brenda. Fifth time that evening.
I stared at the screen until it went dark, and realized something small and terrible.
He hadn’t asked, not once all night, how our children were doing.
I was still holding the damp washcloth from Sam’s forehead when David breezed into the kitchen with his carry-on already zipped.
He set it by the door like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You can handle a couple of sniffles.
“So listen,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “Mom and I fly out Thursday. Fourteen days. The Mediterranean.”
