“I know,” he repeated.
For five long months, I had desperately wanted to see Mason holding one of our sons like that, with quiet care. Now he finally was.
A few days later, Mason sent a quick photo to my cell phone showing our sparkling, spotless kitchen counters at home.
“Cleaned everything. Come home?” the attached text read.
I stared down at the glowing screen for a minute, then typed back: “What time does Noah usually take his last bottle?”
The little animated typing dots appeared on my screen, stopped completely, appeared again, and then vanished. No text answer ever came back.
That same evening, Mason drove straight over to Mom’s house. “What do you want me to do, Brianna?” he asked as soon as he walked through the door.
“I want you to stop waiting for instructions,” I told him plain and simple.
“I’m trying,” he said, sounding exhausted.
