“Dad. You know you’re allowed to miss us. Right?”
Greg’s throat worked before he answered. “I know.”
“We miss you too,” Emma said simply. And then, in the same breath, with the effortless whiplash only your own children can manage: “Also, my kitchen sink is making that noise again. The gurgling one.”
Greg sat up straighter in the driver’s seat, some old, familiar purpose lighting his whole face at once. “What noise? Describe it exactly.”
I smiled the entire rest of the drive home.
That night, when it came time for the next feeding, Greg picked up his pillow out of pure habit and started toward the guest room without a word.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Susan needs another feeding soon. Didn’t want to wake you.”
Same rule. Same quiet mistake, dressed up as consideration.
“Greg.”
He stopped in the doorway.
“Ask me,” I said.
