My Son Brought

beds.

Scrubbed the kitchen sink.

Sorted mail.

Threw away expired coupons.

At 12:37 p.m., Ashley called.

I let it go to voicemail.

Then Mark.

Then my father.

I ignored them all.

At 2:05, I picked Caleb up. He seemed lighter.

“How was work?”

“Busy. Mr. Peterson gave me a Christmas bonus.”

“Really?”

“Twenty-five bucks and a tin of cookies his wife made.”

“That’s nice.continue reading …