Then I realized I didn’t have to.
Both boys were Mason.
That was the point.
Strength had never erased difficulty.
Difficulty had never erased strength.
I had spent years waiting for one to replace the other.
Mason had simply learned to live with both.
We got home after midnight.
I didn’t sleep.
At two in the morning, I sat at the kitchen table staring at a mug of tea I had forgotten to drink.
David came downstairs.
He opened the refrigerator.
Closed it.
Then sat across from me.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“Yes.”
“Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“Mason?”
I hesitated.
“No.”
He nodded.
“That seems fair.”
I glared at him.
“Don’t be reasonable tonight.”
“Sorry.”
Silence settled between us.
Finally I asked, “How could you keep that from me?”
David sighed.
“I asked myself that every month.”
“And?”
“And every month I came to the same answer.”
