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I’ve only seen the New Year’s Eve fireworks in Annapolis once, despite all the years I’ve lived here.
It was the New Year’s Eve right after Bryant and I had bought the house.I was already pregnant.
In fact, I think it was about a month before we got the news after an ultrasound that the precious baby in my belly had several defects in his heart.
But that night—that New Year’s Eve—we were blissfully ignorant of that news.
I frown slightly, thinking of it.
That following winter, we were too worried about our little baby to call a sitter on New Year’s Eve.And that didn’t change in the years that followed.
A smile returns to my cheeks as Harris gives my hand a squeeze when we’re at a stoplight.
I’ve always loved fireworks.If only I had Nicholas for the holidays, I’d love to take him to see them on New Year’s.He’ll be nine next year and might manage to finally stay awake until midnight then.
But he’ll be with his dad that holiday, just like he always is.
I’ll see Nicholas a couple days after that.He’ll return home just in time for me to deal with the post-holiday letdown that always happens when he realizes he needs to go back to school.
We’ll open gifts under the tree the day he arrives simply because the pine needles will have half-fallen to the living room floor by that time, and I’ll need to take the tree to the curb immediately after.
And there will be no more fireworks in Annapolis—not until the Fourth of July—yet another holiday that he’ll be up at his dad’s place.
Harris is right.There’s not a damn thing fair about that.We didn’t come to this arrangement formally.We have nothing in writing or approved by the courts.We didn’t need that, we figured back then.We were two adults whose only goal was to keep our child healthy, happy, and safe.Surely we could come up with a routine that would work well for us.
But now, looking back, I feel like it doesn’t work well formeat all.
Home again, I thrust the negativity aside as we pull into my driveway and step into the warmth of my house.
“Care to race me upstairs?”I ask him coyly, anxious to distract myself.“Or are you going to play hard to—”
A sound stops me.
Nothing unusual.It’s just the chime that my cell phone makes when I have a message waiting.
But it’s coming from my kitchen rather than my purse.
My back stiffens.
“I must have forgotten to bring my phone,” I whisper to myself, knowing that those words mean so little to him.But to a mom, a phone is more like the umbilical cord that no one dares to cut.Even more, to a mom of a kid with heart issues, a phone feels like a lifeline.
I can’t believe I forgot to put my phone in my purse.I never screw up like that.
I turn on my heel away from the staircase and dart toward my phone.
Harris is a single guy.He doesn’t have kids.He doesn’t even have pets.He probably would have no clue why my heart is in my throat right now, or why I’m chastising myself for being so careless.
In those few seconds as I go to check my phone, I’m reminded again of the differences between us.
I lift my phone and my face contorts with worry when I see three voicemails from Bryant waiting for me.
Oh my God.
I’m not sure if I said that out loud or not, but Harris comes immediately to my side.
“Is everything okay?”
Without answering, I tap on my phone, putting it on speaker mode, and listen to the messages.
