But even after our worst arguments, he never chose another room.
So when I woke at 2:17 a.m. and found his side of the bed empty, I wasn’t suspicious.
The next morning, Greg rubbed his lower back.
“The guest-room mattress is firmer. I finally got some sleep down there.”
He was fifty-six. I believed him.
Then it happened again.
I’d wake as Greg quietly got up, took his pillow, and disappeared downstairs.
“Go see a doctor,” I finally said.
He smiled. “Laura, I’m getting old. That’s the diagnosis.”
Then I noticed the blue knitted blanket my mother had made when our son Michael was born was gone.
Greg had kept that blanket through three moves.
“Have you seen it?”
His hand stopped halfway to his coffee.
“I think I donated it by mistake.”
We hadn’t donated anything in months.
That was the first time in thirty-one years I knew my husband was lying to me.
Three nights later, I woke at 2:04 a.m.
Then Greg’s voice drifted up the stairs.
Soft. Tender.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.”
Then:
“Daddy loves you too.”
