I had started wrapping up his dinner before I sat down to eat my own.
I had stopped setting his place.
He missed Thanksgiving — not late, missed it. He missed our anniversary in March. And he missed our daughter Olive’s eighth birthday, which she has never once brought up and which I think about roughly weekly.
Sometimes he didn’t come home at all.
“We’re short-staffed, honey. Don’t wait up.”
When He Did Come Home
Whenever he finally got into bed at two or three in the morning, he looked so completely wrung out that I swallowed every single complaint I’d assembled during the evening.
Once in February I woke up around four and found him sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to me and his shoulders going.
“Ben?”
He wiped his face before he turned around.
“Rough night, Chels. Go back to sleep.”
