I stood up from the changing table, my joints cracking in the quiet room.
“You paid for a trip?” I asked. “Ryan, we have forty-eight-dollar formula cans to buy every four days.”
“I work fifty hours a week to pay for those cans, Shannon,” he said, his voice rising just enough to make Clara look down at the basket. “I deserve three days to clear my head.”
“I need you to listen to me, Ryan,” I said, walking closer to the door so my mother would not have to hear my whisper.
“I am listening,” he said, his defensive chuckle returning. “But my mind is made up. I will be back before you even miss me.”
He turned and walked down the carpeted stairs, his keys jingling in his pocket.
Clara stood up slowly, her hands smoothing the front of her trousers.
“Did he already pay for it?” she asked.
“He said he did,” I whispered, staring at the empty doorway.
In the corner of the nursery, the baby swing kept up its quiet, mechanical hum.
