I found Goldi sitting at the laminate table, a glass of water untouched in front of her.
She was staring at the yellow envelope Dr. Vance had given us, which now sat next to a stack of unpaid medical bills.
“The insurance company called while you were asleep,” she said, not looking up. “They said the prenatal visits might not cover the specialist.”
“We will pay it,” I said, opening the refrigerator to check the milk. “We have the savings from the garage work.”
Goldi pressed her palms flat against her lap, her breathing shallow.
“Arthur, could you raise him without me?”
I stopped with my hand on the refrigerator handle, the cold air washing over my ankles.
“What kind of question is that?” I asked, turning to face her. “We have the thirty-year policy we took out when we got married. You are not going anywhere.”
“I am just asking,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “If something happened. If you had to do it all by yourself.”
“You are tired,” I said, shutting the refrigerator door. “We are both tired. Let the insurance people worry about the bills.”
She did not answer, but her eyes stayed fixed on the yellow paper on the table.
I walked back to our room and lay down, but sleep did not come.
The next afternoon, the waiting room at the Elm Road clinic was crowded with toddlers and coughing infants.
I sat in the corner with Leo, holding him upright against my shoulder while he slept.
Dr. Vance called us back into his small examination room, his clipboard already in hand.
“Where is Goldi today?” he asked, tapping his pen against the metal clip.
“She was exhausted,” I said, clearing my throat. “I told her to stay home and sleep. I wanted to ask about his feeding schedule.”
