And selfishly, I was relieved.
Back then, David traveled often for work.
I was exhausted.
Some days I realized at four in the afternoon that I hadn’t eaten lunch.
The first Saturday Hannah took Mason out, I stood in the kitchen after they left and experienced something I had almost forgotten existed.
Silence.
I made coffee.
I took a shower without someone knocking on the door.
I watched half a movie.
When they returned three hours later, Mason seemed calm.
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Park,” Mason said.
“And?”
“Bookstore.”
“And?”
He shrugged.
“Diner.”
Hannah set her purse on the counter.
“We grabbed fries.”
That was the beginning.
At first, the diner was simply another location in Mason’s fragmented reports.
He mentioned a red booth.
A waitress named Diane.
A man who ordered pancakes at dinner.
A broken jukebox.
A customer who wore mismatched socks.
“Which diner?” I once asked.
