Eight years later, the telephone rang. I heard that familiar husky voice.
Hung up. Backed away from the kitchen, my heart leading the way.
Shrunk down the hall toward the bedroom. What could I say? I was done, finished.
Thought I was resolved.
My husband came into the room. “Who was it,” he asked. Then he looked at me, bent over the dresser. And he knew. “No way.”
“Get the fuck out. Seriously?”
The phone rang again.
“You want me to answer it?” he asked.
I shook my head no. Picked it up, jittery. “What do you want, Dad?”