Your mom silently slips under the sheets while your dad changes into a fresh tee and washes his face. She is so quiet and pale, a sadness that you wouldn’t recognize, fetal and unmoving, her back uncharacteristically pointed in the direction of your dad as he prepares for bed. He plops himself down on his side of the mattress so that it sends the largest possible shock in the direction of your mom, probably hoping to bounce her upward and out of this silence so unlike her. Your mom just lies there. “Honey?” your dad coos. She acknowledges his call nonverbally with a weak noise from her throat that he almost cannot hear. “It now has been two weeks,” he continues. Your mom exhales. She says she knows but misses you the same. Your dad places his hand on top of the covers over the mound made by your mom’s substantial thighs, you know the ones, you got them too, and reminds her that she knew from the very beginning that these days would come.
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