Greg refusing to throw away Michael’s old flashlight because “it still works.”
Greg standing silently in Emma’s empty bedroom after she moved away.
I had always looked at our children’s independence as proof that we’d succeeded as parents.
Maybe Greg had been asking a completely different question.
“After Emma moved out,” he said, “you told me you finally remembered what it was like to wake up because you’d finished sleeping, not because somebody needed you.”
My smile disappeared.
I barely remembered saying that.
“I thought you were happy,” he continued.
“I was.”
“Exactly.”
And suddenly, I understood.
He hadn’t hidden the rescue work because he thought I’d be angry about animals.
He’d hidden it because he was embarrassed by what the volunteering meant to him.
“What did you think I’d say?”
Greg adjusted Susan against his chest.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked away.
I waited.
Finally, he admitted it.
“I thought you’d think it was pathetic.”
