“Mommy’s tired.” It was John’s coach voice. “Daddy’s putting you to bed.”
DJ gave a heartbreaking sob. “Mamama...”
I escaped to the hall, my face flushed, my heart pounding in guilt and relief.
DJ was still sobbing in outrage as I brushed my teeth, as I pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt and folded the rest of the laundry. I heard Daisy’s voice raised in sleepy protest and John’s quiet murmur as he tried to settle our babies to sleep.
Gradually, the noise across the hall subsided. I waited.
No John.
Fearing the worst, I padded across the hallway and peeked in the bedroom door. My husband slumped against the wall of DJ’s bed, a child cuddled in the circle of his arm on either side, Daisy holding tight to his finger. All of them fast asleep.
Something moved in me, deeper than words.
This was love. Not holding back, not keeping score, but doing things for each other. Giving to each other. Not out of obligation, but generously, because it was a joy to offer.
Head to one side, I considered the family pile on the bed. And then—carefully, so carefully, so I didn’t wake the kids—I crawled across the mattress, and laid my head on John’s sprawled leg, and joined them in sleep.
CHAPTER 19
Jo
My father kissed my forehead when he came downstairs the next morning—a rare mark of affection usually reserved for birthdays, holidays, and straight As on my report card.
When I was growing up, I used to think we enjoyed a special, cerebral bond, like Lizzy and Mr. Bennet.
Maybe my coming home was an opportunity for us to develop a deeper understanding. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss my love life with my father. Or the state of my finances or my sudden unemployment. I was here to be a help, not a drag. He had more important things—people—to worry about. Suicidal veterans. Mom.
But maybe now we would finally talk, really talk, about the toll of Iraq on his soldiers and himself, the difficulties of settling into life back home after losing so many friends. It would be the start of a new, closer, adult relationship between us, and years from now, he would say,Yeah, I had some trouble adjusting. But when I realized I needed someone to talk to, my daughter Jo was there for me.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “I fed the goats,” I volunteered. “Made breakfast, too. Biscuits.”
The tang of baking powder and buttermilk hung in the air. I’d used my mother’s recipe, squishing the soft dough between my fingers the way she did, but left her round biscuit cutters in the drawer. I’d cut the dough into squares instead, the way Constanza taught me.“Sin desperdicio,”the garde-manger had said, her gold tooth flashing in a smile.No waste.
My father glanced at the clock. He was already dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like the Duke Divinity student he had been thirty-five years ago. “No breakfast for me, I’m afraid. Services start at nine.”
“Oh. Right,” I said.
It was Sunday. Brunch day in New York, another day of work, a chance to catch up on my blog or sleep or laundry. A week ago, I’d worked the line in the morning and spent the afternoon in bed with Eric.
My father smiled slightly. “You’re an adult, of course. It’s your choice whether you attend services or not. But if you would like to join me...”
My heart went all squishy. In his own way, my father cared about me.
“I can be dressed in five minutes,” I promised.
“Take your time,” my father said, with another glance at the clock.
I’d packed in a blur of tears and fury, throwing everything into the battered suitcase I’d taken to college. It took me seven minutes to strip off my barn jeans and dig out a balled-up pair of leggings. I sniffed the armpits of my sweater before dragging it on. Stuffed my feet into my city-girl boots. When I came downstairs, my father was waiting by the door. The biscuits were untouched.
“You should eat something. At least have coffee,” I said.
My father eyed the freshly brewed pot. “One mug, then. Thank you. To go.”
I prided myself that my life was not my mother’s life. But here I was, in my mother’s kitchen, pouring my father’s coffee into a travel mug.
I handed it to him. “How is Mom?”
