Later that night, as Tiffany slept, Greg caught my wrist when I reached toward the trash.
“Promise me you won’t do anything with that kit,” he said.
“Greg, what are you talking about?”
“We don’t need to know everything, Sue.”
After that, he lingered in the hallway after dinner, watching Tiffany set the table like she was something fragile and fleeting.
“Everything okay?” I asked one night.
“Just tired. Long week.”
Two mornings later, I stood at the kitchen counter holding his coffee mug, my thoughts racing.
Tiffany wandered in, rubbing her eyes. “Mom, can we finish my traits chart after school?”
“Of course,” I said. “Right after your snack.”
When she left, I stayed at the sink, Greg’s mug in one hand, a swab in the other. I didn’t want to be the wife who did this.
But I couldn’t be the mother who ignored it.
