That was the entire conversation about our children.
“Your mom good?” I asked, keeping my voice even.
“She’s just lonely, Rach. You know how she gets.”
“I know how she gets.”
He heard something in my tone and turned toward me. For a moment, I thought he might finally notice what was happening.
Instead, he said, “Don’t start. She’s been through a lot.”
“So have I, David.”
I placed the cup on the counter before it slipped from my hand.
“What’s different about it?”
“She’s my mother.” He spoke as though that explained everything. “You’re my wife. You can handle things. She can’t.”
I said nothing.
I watched him pour himself a glass of water and walk past me toward the living room.
His phone lit up on the counter.
Brenda.
Her fifth call that evening.
I stared at the screen until it darkened and realized something small but devastating.
He had not asked once that night how our children were feeling.
I was still carrying the damp washcloth from Sam’s forehead when David entered the kitchen with a zipped carry-on suitcase.
He placed it beside the door as casually as though it had always been there.
“So listen,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “Mom and I fly out Thursday. Fourteen days. The Mediterranean.”
I stared at him.
My scrubs still smelled like Ellie’s cough medicine. The previous night, I had heard part of his phone call from the hallway—packing list, Mom, I’ll bring the adapter—and convinced myself they were planning another weekend at the lake house.
“Fourteen days,” I repeated.
“She needs to relax, Rach. You know how her blood pressure gets. The doctor practically ordered it.”
“David, the kids have the flu. Both of them. Sam’s fever hit 103 last night.”
He waved one hand as though I were giving him an ordinary weather update.
“You’re a great mom. You can handle a couple of sniffles. My work bonus finally came through, so the timing is perfect.”
“A work bonus,” I said slowly.
“Premium suite. Balcony. She’s never had anything like it.”
I lowered the washcloth before he could see my hand shaking.
“And what about the trip we talked about? The one with the kids in August?”
“We’ll do it next year. This is for Mom.”
Everything was for his mother.
It always had been.
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