« The guest-room mattress is firmer. I finally got some sleep down there. »
He was fifty-six. I believed him.
Then it happened again.
I’d wake as Greg quietly got up, took his pillow, and disappeared downstairs.
« Go see a doctor, » I finally said.
He smiled. « Laura, I’m getting old. That’s the diagnosis. »
Then I noticed the blue knitted blanket my mother had made when our son Michael was born was gone.
Greg had kept that blanket through three moves.
« Have you seen it? »
His hand stopped halfway to his coffee.
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