“She’s having a rough week,” my son said, zipping the bag. “I told her I’d be there by four.”
I nodded and reached for my coffee.
“Tell Diane I said hi. I texted her yesterday, and she barely wrote back,” I told my son.
Aaron paused, just for a second.
“I know, baby.”
But I’d noticed.
My best friend’s replies had been shrinking for weeks. A thumbs-up where there used to be a paragraph. A “k” where there used to be a phone call. I told myself it was the stress, the chemotherapy schedules, and the lack of sleep.
After all, grieving mothers don’t owe anyone small talk.
***
Aaron kissed the top of my head, which still felt new and lovely, and grabbed his keys.
“Drive carefully,” I said.
“Always.”
I watched him from the window as he climbed into his old Civic.
The car pulled away, and the house felt quieter than it should have. Something, I realized, had been building for a while now. I just didn’t know yet what it was.
