Evan had no early classes on Tuesdays, and his school did not start until eight-thirty.
I set the clock on the counter, the plastic cool against my palm, wondering why a husband who claimed his back was sore needed a silent, scheduled summons in the middle of the night.
The house stayed cold all afternoon, the damp Portland air creeping in through the floorboards.
By midnight, the silence in our bedroom felt thick, almost heavy enough to touch. I lay still, my eyes wide in the dark, watching the digital numbers on my phone screen glow blue. Beside me, Evan’s breathing was slow and steady, his back turned to me.
At twelve-fifteen, the sheets shifted.
He did not groan or stretch. He simply slid his legs out from under the quilt, his feet hitting the carpet without a sound.
I waited until his shadow cleared the doorway before I got up, my bare feet cold on the hardwood floor.
The hallway was pitch black, but a thin, watery light spilled from Emma’s bedroom at the far end.
I crept toward the doorway, my hand sliding along the cold plaster wall.
Emma’s silver nightlight cast a pale blue glow over her small bed. Evan was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his head bowed, his arm draped over her small shoulders. Emma was perfectly still, her face tucked into the crook of his elbow.
