“Good,” he said cheerfully.
“She always pinches my cheeks.”
I sat down.
Picked up my fork.
“Finish your pasta.”
After dinner I ran his bath, found his pajamas, listened to a detailed account of a disagreement at recess involving a handball and someone named Marcus who was apparently not to be trusted.
I tucked him in.
We read two chapters of his book — a story about a dog who could talk, which Toby found completely plausible.
I turned off his lamp and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark for a moment.
“Mom,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Is Dani going to keep picking me up on Thursdays?”
I kept my voice even.
“No.
I’m going to handle Thursdays from now on.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“She’s nice,” he said.
“But I like it better when it’s you.”
I leaned down and kissed his forehead.
“Get some sleep.”
I closed his door and stood in the hallway.
Then I went downstairs, sat on the couch, and let myself cry.
Not loudly.
Just steadily, the way rain comes when it has been building all day.
I cried for the Thursdays.
For the 3:15 texts.
For the version of my marriage I had believed in completely and apparently been alone in believing.
