That Saturday morning was quiet in the way our house had been quiet for most
of my 23-year marriage-calm on the surface, but crowded with words no one
dared to say.
Sunlight slipped through the kitchen blinds and fell across the chipped
countertop my husband, Philip, had promised to repair years ago.
I stood beside the sink, stirring a cup of coffee I had not tasted.
Across from me, our son, Caleb, sat at the table in flannel pajama pants,
sketching a sparrow on the back of a grocery flyer.