Now, as I rocked Leo in the dim light, those numbers began to line up against the image of Ethan’s silver pen.
Why would he leave it behind when he always kept it clipped to his notebook?
The smell of cold formula hung heavy in the kitchen by eleven thirty, thick and metallic.
I stood at the sink, rinsing the blue plastic rims of the bottles under hot water while thirty-two dollars worth of powdered milk sat in three open cans on the counter.
My mother, Rita, sat at the kitchen table, her fingers busy turning her gold wedding band around and around.
“A man in his position has responsibilities, Clara,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the running faucet. “You cannot expect him to manage a corporate portfolio and scrub plastic nipples at midnight.”
“He has not held one of them since Tuesday,” I said, keeping my words even and quiet.
“Men need their space during these early months,” Rita said, her whisper dropping even lower. “Your father did not touch a diaper until you were three years old, and we survived.”
She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and reached for her handbag on the chair.
“The midnight feeding is starting,” I said, pointing toward the stairs where the first faint whimpers were beginning. “If you could just stay for twenty minutes to hold the warm bottle for Leo.”
Rita tucked her bag under her arm and headed for the back door.
“I have my bridge group at nine tomorrow,” she said. “You need to learn to manage your own household, Clara.”
She slipped out into the driveway, leaving me alone with the dirty bottles and the rising chorus from the nursery.
I dried my hands on a tea towel and looked at the kitchen calendar, where Ethan had marked the upcoming weeks with small blue checkmarks.
