“Your only job right now is to keep our child safe, not to worry about school budgets,” he said, offering a bright, re-assuring smile that did not show in his eyes.
He patted my knee and walked toward the closet to retrieve his damp gray wool coat from the hanger. I watched his reflection in the vanity mirror, wondering when my daily schedule had stopped being a matter of my own choice.
“I can drive myself to the clinic later if you need to get to the office,” I said.
“We are taking my car,” he said, pulling his coat on and adjusting the collar. “I have already cleared my morning schedule.”
By eight o’clock, the scent of burnt toast filled the downstairs kitchen, a familiar sign that my mother was trying to make herself useful. Clara stood by the porcelain sink, carefully rinsing the blue ceramic plates we had used for breakfast.
“He is only worried about you, Evelyn,” she said, her voice soft with the gentle, cautious optimism she always wore when she wanted to smooth over a rough patch.
I sat at the wooden kitchen table, my fingers tracing the grain of the oak where the varnish had worn thin. “There is a distinction between worry and supervision, Mom.”
Clara turned off the faucet, dried her hands on a checkered dish towel, and immediately smoothed the front of her pleated wool skirt. It was a physical habit she fell back on whenever she sensed a small conflict beginning.
“He has invested a great deal of his heart in this pregnancy, just as you have,” she said, looking down at the soapy water draining away.
“He treats me like a fragile vessel that might crack if I take a full step,” I said, looking out the kitchen window at the damp autumn leaves clinging to the concrete driveway.
