At exactly 4:17, the front door opened.
“I’M HOME, GIRLS!”
Trevor entered wearing sunglasses and smelling like sunscreen.
Then he saw Frank.
His suitcase fell from his hand.
“Dad?”
Frank looked up calmly.
“Hello, Trevor.”
The color disappeared from Trevor’s face.
He finally noticed the chalkboard.
Before he could speak, I attempted to stand. Pain cut through my abdomen.
Trevor moved toward me, but Frank reached me first. He supported my arm and placed a chair behind me.
Trevor stopped.
Another man had instinctively done what should have been his responsibility.
“You don’t get to judge me,” Trevor told his father.
Frank nodded.
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Then he adjusted the sleeping baby.
“But I know the story you’re telling yourself. You believe it was only five days. You think you can make it up later because the babies won’t remember.”
Trevor looked away.
