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He probably considers this statement a peace offering. I decide to try for some intimacy, some connection beyond our future food consumption:

“I got my dad’s test result,” I say. “He does have it.”

Kyle looks confused. “Test result?”

“Remember how I said they were doing a confirmatory test?”

“Oh, right,” he says, though I can tell he doesn’t remember.

“Yeah. It’s confirmed.”

He nods. “Okay, well, you expected that, right?”

“I guess I was hoping for a mistake or a miracle.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, babe.”

He stands, as if ready to depart from the emotional breakdown he expects me to have.

I think about Elijah. I am sure he would put his arm around me.

He would hold me. He would let me cry without making me feel stupid about it.

He would say, “Let’s get a babysitter so we can go out and talk.

” He would never be a bull in a china shop in bed.

“Wait,” I say in a small voice.

He’s taken one step toward the door. He stops. Turns to me, waiting for further instruction. Why isn’t it natural for him to comfort me? Why does he need instruction?

“Can you just, like, hug me?” I ask him.

I feel stupid asking. Every woman’s fantasy is never having to ask—for help, for affection, for tenderness, for gratitude. I wouldn’t have to ask Elijah.

“Sure, yeah,” he says. He looks surprised by the request. I’ve never asked him this before.

He puts his arms around me, and I close my eyes to try to conjure the feeling of safety and love I feel with Elijah.

It’s just not there, though. Hugging my husband is like hugging a tree trunk.

He pulls away after just a few seconds and looks at me like Did I do okay?

and I want to cry. My dad is definitely dying, and my marriage is too.

“Daddy!” Liv says, running over to him, holding something in her hand. She waves it in front of his face as he kneels to receive her.

“Look what me found!”

He takes it from her, squints. It looks like one of the pretend credit cards that came with Grace’s toy cash register.

“What is this, Livvy?” he says, perplexed.

“What is it?” Grace asks, coming over to investigate.

“It looks like a key card for a hotel,” he says.

I glance down and see that’s exactly what it is, “Hilton” printed in red letters.

“Where did you get that?” I ask her, though I know exactly where she got it: the park. She has become quite the scavenger.

“Mommy’s bag,” she says, pointing to my purse sitting on the garage floor.

“Liv, tell the truth,” I say. “Did you find that at the park?”

“No,” she says, eyes big and blameless. This morning, I put what little hair she has into two fountains on top of her head. She is, indisputably, darling.

“She’s been picking up things at the park,” I say to Kyle. I do not mention the tampon applicator. I will never mention the tampon applicator.

“Well, good find,” he says to Liv, handing it back to her. She looks quite pleased with herself. They both love their father’s praise. It is doled out sparingly and, therefore, coveted.

“Can I have it?” Grace says, already taking the card from her sister.

Liv starts crying.

Right on cue, Kyle says, “Okay, I’m going to head back inside.”

It takes me ten minutes to get the girls calm again.

I tell them nobody gets the hotel card until they can agree to take turns.

They agree to take turns, then promptly lose interest in it and request that I draw hearts with them on the driveway.

I comply. I press so hard with the red stick of chalk that it’s nothing but a nub by the time we’re done.

When the lasagna is done, I put pizzas in the oven for the girls and set a timer for ten minutes.

The girls are running circles around the kitchen island.

For some reason, they have taken off their clothes.

I suppose this is fine because they do need a bath tonight.

Kyle is sitting at the dinner table, looking at something on his phone, waiting to be served.

Every now and then, he says, “Girls!” when they get too loud.

It quiets them for twenty seconds, and then they return to their usual volume.

“Mom, come sit on the floor,” Grace says. She has mischief in her eyes.

“Girls, don’t bug your mom,” Kyle says, not looking up from his phone.

“Mom, please?” Grace says, her little hands clasped together, begging.

I go to the rug and sit on it. Sometimes complying with their wishes is easier than a back-and-forth discussion about why I am not complying with their wishes.

You bring it on yourself. Kyle’s said that before.

He rejects their demands frequently and easily.

Sometimes I think I comply to compensate for his refusals.

“Okay, I’m sitting,” I say.

Grace turns around and starts walking backward into me, her bare butt headed straight for my face. She’s already giggling.

“Grace, what are you doing?” I ask.

Liv starts copying her, so there are now two bare butts coming for me. Liv’s is adorably dimpled.

When Grace’s heels touch my legs, she crouches so she’s almost sitting in my lap but not quite.

“Pretend you’re a toilet,” she says to me.

“Grace, come on,” I say, starting to press myself up.

She starts making farting noises and the girls erupt in hysterics.

This is probably something they saw on YouTube. So it’s probably my fault. I should limit their screen time or police what they watch more closely. I deserve to be a toilet.

When the timer on my phone dings, I go to turn it off and see a text message.

It’s from a number I don’t recognize, most likely spam.

It’s not enough that there are spam calls.

Now there are spam texts, alerting me to ways I can save on loans that I don’t have, or encouraging me to share my home address so I can receive a special gift.

Hey. I’m sorry, I know you said not to text. I just can’t stop thinking about you. Don’t hate me.

It takes me a while to exit my “spam text” mindset and realize that this is Elijah. Unlike me, he has not deleted all our messages. I am still in his phone. For some reason, I didn’t consider that he would reach out to me.

“Mom, I’m huuungry,” Grace says, snapping me back to reality.

I put down the phone.

“I’m bringing your pizza now,” I say, taking the pizzas out of the oven.

I am instantly lifted, soaring. I dance my way to the kitchen table.

“Pizza? I don’t want pizza,” Grace whines.

I don’t even care, though. Let her whine.

I bring two plates of lasagna for Kyle and me, and say, “Let’s go around and say what we’re grateful for.”

I only do this on days when I’m in a good mood, when I’m capable of considering gratitude.

“I’m grateful that Mom is a toilet,” Grace says.

I laugh right along with her and Liv. Kyle looks at us like we’re all insane. Maybe we are. I am, for sure.

I savor the text throughout the rest of the night.

It carries me through bath time, teeth brushing, pajama changing, book reading, and lullaby singing.

I am longing to respond and also not sure about responding.

If I respond, it will escalate. Do I want it to escalate?

The irresponsible, selfish part of me does.

Should I honor that part? It’s been so neglected.

I close the door to the girls’ bedroom and tiptoe to the staircase, deciding I will go to the living room, curl up on the couch with a cup of tea, and engage in a text messaging extravaganza with Elijah. But as I step onto the first stair, I hear Kyle:

“Hey,” he says.

He’s in bed. I can see light from the TV dancing across the walls.

“Did you need something?” I ask, peering into our room, hands pressed into opposite sides of the doorframe.

He turns off the TV.

“You coming to bed?”

“I was thinking I’d watch TV in the other room,” I say. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

He doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve co-opted his phrase from earlier.

“Why don’t you come here?” he says, patting the bed next to him.

I’m anxious to tend to my phone, to respond to Elijah. I’m humming with nervous, excited energy. I must look like I’m on uppers.

“I feel like I need some alone time after today,” I say.

He sighs. “Okay, can’t say I didn’t try.”

His voice is dripping with self-pity, and I am overcome with wrath.

“This isn’t about you,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m going through a really hard time, and you’re just mad I don’t want to have sex with you. This isn’t about you.”

He looks surprised by the vigor and venom in my voice.

“I miss you, Nic. You act like that’s some terrible offense to you.”

“You miss my body, which you want on your terms, when it’s convenient for you. I’m tired of it.”

My limbs tingle with adrenaline or a coming hot flash. Kyle puts up both hands, like a cop trying to calm down an erratic, angry meth head.

“Whoa now,” he says.

“Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t act like I’m crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were crazy,” he says, slow and measured. It’s how I talk with the girls when they are, in fact, crazy.

“Don’t patronize me,” I say, abandoning my post in the doorway and going toward him.

He puts up his hands again and says those maddening words:

“Nic, calm down.”

I break out in a sweat as I get right in his face and say, “Don’t say that to me.”

He leans back against the headboard of the bed, away from me. It is the only time in our twenty-year relationship that I’ve seen him afraid of me.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he says, shaking his head.

I want to feel loved when you hug me, I think.

I collapse onto the bed, face first. I wait for him to put a hand on me, to stroke my back like I stroke the girls’ backs when they lose their shit. He does not put a hand on me.

“Nic, tell me how to help,” he says. “If you need alone time tonight, have some alone time.”

I want your company to soothe me, but it doesn’t, I think.

I lift my face from the bed and stand.

“What if this doesn’t get better?” I ask him.