“I love you,” he said.
“I need you to know that.”
I walked to the cabinet and took out two plates.
Set them on the counter.
Opened the refrigerator.
He picked up his keys.
The front door closed behind him, and the house went quiet.
I stood at the counter for a long moment.
Then I called up the stairs.
“Toby!
Dinner’s almost ready, bud.”
“Coming!” he shouted.
His feet thundered down the stairs.
He appeared in the doorway with his hands still slightly damp from washing, his backpack abandoned somewhere above.
“Where’s Daddy?” he asked.
I set his plate on the table.
“He had to go out for a little while.”
Toby climbed into his chair.
“Is he coming back?”
I looked at my son — his round face, his father’s eyes, the small grease stain on his shirt from something that had happened at recess.
“I don’t know yet, bud,” I said.
“But I’m here.
Okay?”
He picked up his fork.
“Okay,” he said simply, and started eating.
I sat down across from him.
Put food on my own plate.
Watched him chew and look around the kitchen the way he always did, taking inventory of his world.
I wasn’t crying.
