Christopher had told me he was flying out for a last-minute business negotiation that could “change everything” for us.
He had packed two linen shirts I had never seen him wear to a meeting, taken the expensive sunglasses he usually saved for vacations, and kissed my forehead without looking me in the eyes.
I had noticed all of it.
I had also been too exhausted to challenge him.
Gertrude had taken a sudden turn that week, and my days had narrowed to medication schedules, doctor calls, grocery runs, laundry, and the soft shuffle of her slippers across the guest room floor.
Christopher knew his mother was failing.
He knew she had started forgetting whether she had eaten.
He knew her hands shook so badly that she could no longer hold a coffee mug without both palms wrapped around it.
Still, he left.
Now he wanted me to believe he was trapped in a conference room while the ocean moved behind him.
