I live for the moment you walk through the door, when each day ends and my newly-married life begins. My husband returns; I belong. Beneath my nose our dinner browns and the aroma of pork chops and steamed vegetables brings the puppy to lean heavily on my leg. I’m weighed down by the doctor’s news. How do I say there’s no happily ever after?
The bell on the back door alerts the dogs and they rush to smother you. I hear you say “Were you good puppies today? Did no one run away?” I feel the cold air glide over the kitchen floor around your feet. I look up with tears streaming. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” you whisper. I swallow hard, but there is no joy in the answer.
September 2000
