Meanwhile, Mark’s parents carried on as though nothing had changed.
Wednesday night, Patricia texted him:
Dad’s cardiology appointment tomorrow at 9:15. Don’t forget.
Mark showed me.
“She didn’t ask.”
“Nope.”
“You already took the morning off, didn’t you?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Of course he had.
Richard’s appointment was routine, thankfully.
Afterward, he and Mark stopped for breakfast because Richard wanted eggs and believed cardiologists had a personal vendetta against breakfast food.
Somewhere between the restaurant and home, Richard said, “Your mother and I are lucky you live close. Your sisters have their own lives.”
Mark later told me he almost ignored it.
Almost.
Instead, he said, “I have a life too, Dad.”
Richard waved him off. “You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, Mark was beginning to understand exactly what he meant.
That evening, Richard called again because his printer had stopped working.
Twenty minutes later, Mark drove over and came home just before nine.
I looked up from my book. “Diagnosis?”
He removed his jacket. “Catastrophic paper deficiency.”
“The printer was out of paper?”
“Completely.”
“Good Lord. Did everyone survive?”
“Barely.”
We both laughed.
Then my phone buzzed.
Aurora wanted me.
Comparable salary.
Better retirement match.
Flexible start date.
I read the email twice before Mark asked, “You got it?”
I nodded.
He didn’t celebrate immediately.
Instead, he asked, “Do you want it?”
That question was harder.
I thought about my office at Riverside, my friend Denise down the hall, the house we had spent twelve years making ours, the pharmacist who knew me, our neighbors, and the maple tree we planted after my mother died.
People talk about moving as though mountains automatically turn change into adventure.
They don’t.
Sometimes moving just means leaving a dentist you finally trust.
But I also thought about Mark declining the same opportunity three times because everyone had quietly decided his availability belonged to them.
“I think I do.”
He reached across the couch and took my hand.
The next morning, we accepted both jobs.
Six weeks.
That was how long we had to pack twelve years of life in Ohio.
We told Richard and Patricia the following Sunday.
Mark insisted on doing it in person, although I privately thought a phone call from a moving vehicle with unreliable reception had considerable charm.
Patricia had made pot roast.
We ate first because, as Mark said, “There are families who communicate through healthy conversation. The Bennetts communicate through food and strategic delay.”
