Within a year, Michael had developed a strange nightly ritual.
Every evening, usually after dinner, he would ask me to sit beside him on the sofa.
He would take both my hands and say, “Tell me what you told me before.”
At first, I didn’t understand.
“What do you mean?”
“The promise, Sarah.”
I would sigh and repeat the words.
“It’s not my fault. Tomorrow will be better.”
He would study my face.
“Again.”
“It’s not my fault. Tomorrow will be better.”
“Again.”
Sometimes he made me say it five or six times.
Sometimes twenty.
If I became frustrated, he would begin crying.
“You don’t understand what I’m going through,” he would say. “You’re the only person who can help me.”
I loved him. I wanted to help him.
So I continued.
Years passed, and the ritual became a part of our lives.
It no longer mattered whether I had spent the day working, whether I had a headache, or whether I was exhausted.
