The kitchen was dark when I went downstairs at midnight, save for the small green light on the microwave. Tommy was sitting at the island, his small legs dangling from the high barstool.
He was holding a small blue toy truck in his left hand, spinning the plastic wheels with his thumb. His shoulders were high and tight, and his breathing had the dry, whistling quality that always kept me awake at night.
“You should be asleep, sweetheart,” I said, stepping onto the cool tile.
“The noise woke me up,” Tommy said in his hesitant, precise voice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his plastic medicine dispenser, taking a slow, measured breath from the blue plastic mouthpiece.
I walked to the refrigerator, took out the organic whole milk, and poured a cup into a small ceramic pan. The sound of the gas burner igniting was a low hiss in the dark kitchen.
“It was just your father leaving for a meeting,” I said, keeping my back to him so he would not see my face.
“He missed dinner again,” Tommy said. “He missed it on Tuesday, too.”
I stirred the milk with a silver spoon, listening to the metal click against the side of the pan. It was the same silver pattern Eleanor had selected for our wedding registry twelve years ago.
“The company is very busy right now,” I said, pouring the warm liquid into his favorite mug. “They are preparing for your grandmother’s seventy-fifth birthday.”
“Is that why he does not eat with us anymore?” Tommy asked, looking up at me with eyes that were far too old for a ten-year-old boy.
I set the mug down in front of him and smoothed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. I did not have an answer that would make him feel safe.
“Drink your milk, Tommy,” I said softly.
