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Liv stops crying as I bounce her up and down. Grace comes to me, wraps her arms around my hips.

“I don’t want Mommy to leave,” Grace says, looking at my partially packed bag.

Liv starts sobbing again.

“I don’t want Mommy to leave either,” Kyle says.

He is looking at Grace when he says this, not at me. My eyes are full of fury, and he knows it.

“You’re sick, Daddy?” Grace asks, going to him now.

Grace is very much into playing doctor, pretending to check heartbeats and administer medicines. For Christmas, I put several boxes of Band-Aids in her stocking so she could tend to our imagined wounds.

She pats his arm and then places her little hand on his forehead.

“Maybe you have a fever,” she says.

She’s learned about all things medical from YouTube. She was mesmerized by a video featuring a Barbie doll having a C-section. Maybe YouTube isn’t all bad. Maybe it will be partially responsible for her future career. Dr. Grace Sanchez. It has a nice ring.

“Are you really sick?” I ask him, doing a horrible job of hiding how inconvenient this is for me.

It’s hard to have sympathy. I am always the one who gets sick, rarely Kyle.

When the girls were in day care, I was sick approximately twice a month with various colds and stomach ailments.

One time, I puked into the cup holder of my car during my evening commute home from work, suddenly overcome with norovirus.

There have been two upsides to me staying home with the girls: 1) I no longer have to flog them over many hurdles to get out the door for day care in the morning, and 2) there is much less sickness.

It’s been months since I’ve had to force a syringe of antibiotic goop into anyone’s mouth.

“Stomach thing,” he says. “Probably something I ate.”

Which is plausible. He’s a big fan of getting DoorDash from questionable fast-food establishments. He does look a bit green around the gills, as my dad would say.

“Poor Daddy,” Grace says.

Liv has lifted her head from me to look at her father. Sick people are fascinating spectacles to young children.

“I’ll be fine, just need some rest,” he says.

This is my cue to usher the girls out of the bedroom. I want to roll my eyes because I know that if I had whatever bug is plaguing him, I would be going about my usual duties, not lying in bed.

“Come on, girls,” I say.

They file out of the room in front of me, run ahead to the stairs.

“Should I cancel my trip this weekend?” I ask Kyle.

The idea of not seeing Elijah fills me with intense despair.

“I don’t know,” he says, wincing as he clutches his stomach.

“Okay, well, I’ll need to tell Merry and—”

“Nic, chill,” he says. “It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour bug. We can figure it out tomorrow.”

I hate when he tells me to chill, but I bite my tongue, refrain from my usual admonitions.

“No dinner for you then?” I ask.

He grimaces. “No.” He clutches his belly again, making me aware of the extent of his misery.

“I’ll bring you some ginger ale,” I say, because I’m not a total bitch.

After I put the girls to bed, I can hear Kyle vomiting in the master bathroom. It is not looking good for this weekend. I go to the living room, make myself comfortable on the couch, assuming it will be my bed for the night. I text Elijah.

I have bad news.

He replies immediately, as he usually does:

Oh no. What?

I’m not sure I can come up this weekend.

I always thought that phrase “heart sinking” was a melodramatic cliché, but I can really feel something in my chest free-falling.

Him: Nooooooo

My thoughts exactly

Him: Why?

I’ve got a stomach bug, I think.

Him: Ugh. That sucks. Can I have some chicken soup sent to you?

I imagine that—giving him my address. I imagine him googling it, seeing that I live in a house suitable for a family. With just a little internet sleuthing, he would learn that the house is owned by Kyle and Nicole Sanchez. And the jig, as they say, would be up.

You’re sweet, but I’m going to lay off food for the night.

Him: Maybe you’ll feel better in the morning

I send the fingers-crossed emoji. He sends back two of the same, then says:

I choose to remain optimistic

Of course you do

Him: What if I come to you? I can take care of you?

I physically shudder at this, imagining him showing up at the front door, Kyle answering.

No, no. I’m a horrible patient. I’m like a sick cat. Just want to find a bush and be alone until I feel better.

Him: Ok. Go get some rest then, Kit-Kat. I hope you feel better

Thank you. I miss you

We trade kissy-face emojis because we continue to be horribly sappy, and then I put my phone on the coffee table and attempt to ignore the sounds of Kyle retching so I can sleep.

The next morning, the retching has stopped, but Kyle remains in bed, looking as if death might come for him at any moment. I bring him water and saltine crackers.

“Thanks,” he says.

How’s my girl doing this morning?

Elijah.

I respond:

Not sure yet. Need to get up and around a bit.

“I’m sorry this messes up your weekend plans,” Kyle says.

Illness tends to humble him. He’s always sweeter, softer in the twenty-four hours following a minor health crisis.

I shrug. “Not your fault. I’ll tell Merry and my dad I’m not coming.”

I feel my mood instantly darken, all the pep leaving my step.

“Maybe you can still go,” Kyle says.

“Kyle, if you think the girls are going to play calmly on the floor while you rest in bed next to them all weekend, I’m afraid you are sorely mistaken.”

“I know that,” he says. He is feeling well enough to convey mild irritation with my condescending tone. “I meant you could take the girls with you.”

This had not even occurred to me, mostly because including Elijah and my daughters in the same thought process causes my brain to temporarily short-circuit.

“Oh,” I say. “I suppose I could.”

My mind races as I consider the logistics.

Merry and my dad would like to see the girls.

It’s been so long. Will my dad even remember them?

Some of his long-term memory appears to be intact, but who knows?

What will I tell the girls about him being in a wheelchair?

Is there any conceivable way I could still see Elijah?

Would it be possible to enjoy Elijah if I knew my daughters were just a handful of miles away?

“I’ll ask Merry what she thinks,” I say. “Might be a bit much to have the girls in the house with my dad and Frank.”

“Who’s Frank?”

I’m reminded that Kyle and I really do not talk to each other about our lives anymore.

“The caregiver.”

“The caregiver is named Frank?”

I text Merry:

Looks like Kyle has some food poisoning. What if I brought the girls up with me?

It sometimes takes Merry several hours to respond to a text, but she responds right away this time. I imagine her sitting next to my dad at the kitchen table, passing time on her phone.

Merry: Oh, I bet your dad would love to see them! And me too, of course

I think about how to propose this next part. It’s not something I would even consider proposing if Frank wasn’t on the scene, but he is. And I need to see Elijah.

Feel free to say no, but would it be too much to ask if you watch the girls overnight so I can visit with Prisha again? It’s just that I’ve had so little time to myself ...

The self-pitying martyr act is very unbecoming, but it’s the only tactic I can think of right now, and it’s one Merry, like most women, is familiar with herself.

Merry: Sure! I don’t see why not!

It’s settled then.

Okay. We’ll get on the road soon. Will probably have to make a few stops along the way

And by a few , I mean three hundred. This drive is going to be hell.

I can barely maintain sanity after an hour in the car with the girls, and this will be several hours.

If thoughts of Elijah can sustain me through this, then I need to find a way to continue this affair indefinitely, or at least until the girls have moved out of the house.

Merry: Drive safe!

When I tell Grace and Liv that we are going on a trip to see Papa and Grandma Merry, they both start jumping up and down and screaming “Trip! Trip! Trip!” This enthusiasm is likely to carry us through the first half hour, at which point they will get restless and bored.

I charge the iPad and pack an entire duffel bag with snacks, games, and toys from my “emergency stash” (which is basically a box of toys the girls do not know I have that I keep hidden in the master closet for times in which my mental health depends on their entertainment).

I throw together a bag of clothes, pull-ups, stuffed animals, and a multitude of must-have blankets. It’s all very rushed and manic. Then I text Elijah:

I think I’m good to come up!

He sends back a party-hat emoji.

Him: I promise to take excellent care of you

You better

We leave the house just after ten o’clock in the morning, and the girls are surprisingly well behaved until we hit the Los Angeles County line.

At that point, it’s about time for lunch, so we do the McDonald’s drive-through, and I get them Happy Meals, hoping they live up to their names.

They do, thankfully, and then Liv falls asleep.

Grace sits with her eyes wide open, resisting the nap, until she finally nods off.

They wake up just as we pass through Santa Barbara. We make a bathroom stop and get ice cream cones. I text Elijah.

Can’t wait to see you. Feeling so much better now

Him: So glad to hear it. I want to trace your whole body with my fingertips

Just that text is enough to keep me content through the next four hours of driving, which include a chorus of whining, interrupted only by occasional silences when the girls are engaged with something on the iPad.