Chapter 22: A Saturday of Her Own

On Saturday morning I woke at eight with nothing planned and nobody's child due at my door.

I lay in my own bed, in my own house, and listened to the quiet.

For eighteen months every Saturday had begun with a text asking for a favor.

This one began with a different text.

Shannon had written at seven: Waiting outside with Cody. I'll stay in the car.

I made chocolate chip pancakes, and I made too many.

Cody ate five.

He told me about a worm he had found, and a boy at day care who bit, and then he asked whether Uncle Neil was ever coming back.

"I don't think so, buddy."

"Is that okay?"

"It's okay," I said. "It's sad, and it's okay."

He nodded and reached for a sixth pancake.

When I walked him out to the car, Shannon was behind the wheel with sunglasses on.

She didn't get out, and I didn't lean down to the window.

"Back by noon," she said.

"Two o'clock. We're going to the park."

She nodded, and her mouth trembled.

I turned around and went in.

At ten the doorbell rang.

Three women from the Thursday group stood on my porch.

The woman who had hosted the winery night held a coffee tray, and the other two held a plant and a pie.

"We won't stay," she said. "We wanted to say it to your face."

I let them in.

They sat on my sofa, in front of the dark television, and they looked at their knees.

"We knew," the winery woman said. "Not all of it. We knew about the trips and we knew nobody invited you. We told ourselves you liked being home."

"I didn't."

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