Sometimes, when Ryan called from a hotel room, Oliver would carry his calendar to the phone and proudly announce how many nights remained.
Ryan always laughed.
“You’re keeping track of me, buddy?”
“Of course! You promised we’d build my model airplane when you get home.”
“I remember.”
And I believed him.
I believed so many things.
That morning, Ryan had kissed my forehead while I stood at the kitchen counter making breakfast.
“Chicago again?” I’d asked.
“Unfortunately. Two days of meetings.”
He poured himself coffee and checked his phone.
“Don’t forget to call the kids tonight.”
“I won’t.”
“And your mother?”
“What about her?”
“You promised you’d call her back yesterday. She said she wanted to talk to you.”
Ryan barely looked up.
“I’ll call her after my meetings.”
I remember feeling irritated by his distracted manner.
Now, that memory makes me wonder whether he was already arranging his secret life while I stood three feet away, worrying about ordinary family things.
