Don't Wait Up



“So when are you coming home tonight?” he said.

She looked at him as he stood there by the stove, feet in fuzzy slippers, flower apron over sweatpants, his favorite spatula raised to flip the next pancake. The children had aged him. He never mentioned it, but his body hadn’t really bounced back after Caden was born by a cesarian two years ago.

“It might get late,” she said and slipped into her high heels. “We have a call with Japan at six, and then the girls wanted to get a cold one or two at O’Malley’s. Don’t wait up.”