I thought my husband was picking our son up from school every Thursday — but one day, my boy casually asked, “Mom, why didn’t my other mom pick me up today like she usually does?”

I had time.

Real time.

Months of it, still ahead.

I turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.

In the morning, Toby came in at six-fifteen and climbed under the covers beside me and told me about a dream he’d had involving a talking fish, which he described in full and serious detail for eleven minutes.

I listened to every word.

That was enough, for now.

That was more than enough.