Shortly after dawn on a January Monday, I stood at the living room window, a forgotten cup of coffee in my hand, watching the snow whirl in the early morning haze.
Then I heard something—a rustle behind me. Glancing up, I caught my wife’s reflection on the windowpane. She walked toward me across the living room, draped in my navy bathrobe, her hair wet from the shower. I set the mug down on the window sill and I slid my arm around her waist and I pulled her close. We both watched the snow fall, not saying anything.
Finally I said, “Is he still asleep?”
“Yes. But not for long.”
I smiled a sad smile. “Every day he wakes up at the same time.” I paused. “But not today.”
“We could wake him up. He’s waking up soon anyway.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, baby.”
She hesitated. She caressed my hand. You should leave, I told myself. You should leave now or you’ll be late.
“Did you have breakfast?” she asked.
“I’m not hungry.” I paused. “You had a rough night.”
“He was very hungry.”
“I wish I could help.”
“I enjoy breastfeeding him.”
I nodded. Suddenly aware of the ticking that came from the clock on the fireplace mantel, I turned to face her and I ran my free hand through her dark wet hair. “I’d better go.”
She touched my cheek. “I wish you didn’t have to.”
“So do I.” I smiled again. “Think he’ll miss me?”
She squeezed my hand again. “Of course he will.”
“He’s two weeks old.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. She added, “You can still go in. Even if you really don’t want to wake him up, you can still go in. Quietly. You can watch him for a bit.” She smiled. “He’s the world’s cutest baby.”
Yes, he is, I thought, and I thought back to every morning since he was born a week ago, and how we’d gape at him asleep in his crib, this tiny person who’d graced our lives, and how we’d marvel at the small slow movements he’d make with this hands and we’d chuckle at his frown, wondering just what in the world he could possibly frown about.
“He is,” I said. “He’s a handsome little guy. But it’s best if I don’t go in.”
She held me tighter and buried her face in my chest. “I’ll miss you.”
I nodded. I opened my mouth. I cleared my throat. I started over. “I’ll miss you too. Both of you.”
“I hope it won’t be a long day,” she said. “It’s all right if it is, but I hope you’ll be home early.”
“I’ll try,” I said and I smiled a crooked smile, the one I hoped she had yet to figure out for the disguise it really was. Then she leaned in and I did the same and we kissed.
“You sure you don’t want to see him?” she said when the kiss was over.
“It’s easier if I don’t.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
I nodded back and after one last squeeze of her hand I turned and walked slowly out of the living room, trying very hard to ignore the baby swing next to the couch and the picture on the fireplace mantel, the one we’d had taken in the hospital the day after he was born.
Once in the hall, I took my coat and my scarf from the rack and I put them on. I turned around and found she’d followed me, as I’d known she would, and her hair was still wet and dark and she was still beautiful draped in my navy bathrobe, the morning light streaming in from the window behind her.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
“You’d better.” We both smiled, but it wasn’t as fun a smile as it had always been. Then I spun around and unlocked the door and stepped out and paced down the hallway and pounded down two flights of creaky old stairs and out the door of the building into the snow. I trudged south toward the bus stop, where a short line of dark figures waited, shoulders hunched against the cold, and as I reached them I heard the bus turn around the curve behind me and roll into a stop at the beginning of the line.
To hell with it, I decided. I’m going back. I’m quitting, never going back into that office again. I’m heading back upstairs and I’m kissing my wife and we’re waking up our son and we’re having breakfast and then I’m sitting down and I’m working on my novel and I’ll support us all through my writing.
But then I climbed onto the bus. I fumbled my way past the passengers until I found a spot in the back and then the bus pulled away from the curb and started down the road, away from our crumbling apartment building. It was shortly after dawn on a January Monday, and I stood at the window, watching the snow whirl in the early morning haze.