I passed a hand to my face.
“What?”
“I’m not going to start over with three more,” she said.
From the baby room came another burst of crying.
Mom grabbed a sweater.
“I want to live while I still can.”
I stared at her.
“That’s your daughters, Mom. They have three months.”
“I know.” I stopped breathing.
“Then stop packing.”
He closed the zipper of the suitcase.
I followed her downstairs.
“Mom, you are exhausted. Sleep. I’ll take care of it tonight.”
“No.”
“One night.”
“Aaron.”
“One day, then,” he pleaded. “We will call someone tomorrow. We will solve it.”
He came to the front door.
I stood in front of her.
“Mom, please… I need you.”
His hand was pressed around the handle of the suitcase.
For a strange second, he stopped.
He looked up at the ladder.
Then to me.
I remember thinking I was about to change my mind.
