Emma was tossing under her pink quilt, her small brow furrowed as she murmured something incoherent into her pillow. I walked over and adjusted the silver nightlight, turning the small metal shade so the beam pointed away from her eyes.
Her restless movements made my chest tighten with a familiar, heavy guilt. It was the same look she had when I left her with my mother Ruth for a full month after the divorce, a time I still tried to push out of my mind.
I stood there in the dark, wondering if her sudden nighttime distress had anything to do with Evan’s secret pacings. Was his empty side of our bed connected to the way our daughter struggled in her sleep?
She turned her head away from my hand, letting out a sleepy, slurred whisper that died out before I could understand the words.
The next morning at seven, the Portland fog pressed thick against the kitchen windows. I stood at the edge of the hallway, watching Evan struggle to scoop coffee grounds into the filter.
His hand misjudged the distance, spilling a dark line of grounds across the white countertop. He did not clean it up immediately, instead leaning heavily against the cabinets with his eyes closed.
