Greg slept through most nights. By morning, he was up, feeling fresh and rested as he strolled through the house and asked me to do things. Meanwhile, I was running on fumes.
Greg watched me dress and asked, “Are those still maternity jeans?”
“Remember when people called me lucky?”
I nodded without looking at him.
“You used to care,” he would say.
Or, “Remember when people called me lucky?”
Then he would kiss the children good night and wear the face of a kind man.
If I objected, he acted wounded.
“I can’t be honest with my wife now?”
Then he would kiss the children good night and wear the face of a kind man.
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