Find Comfort, Give Comfort
Bill had stayed awake waiting for me after my talk with Mom. The lamp on the nightstand lit the silver in his hair.
During the weeks of my sudden turn from not wanting a baby to wanting one, Bill hadn’t gotten angry with me, not for one moment, even though I was the one who wanted to change the rules. He’d been quiet, watchful. He’d already had one marriage with a wife who wanted more than he could give.
“How’d it go?” he said, because he knew I’d planned to have this conversation with Mom.
“It went okay.” I got into bed. “I’m glad I talked to her.”
“Good.” He put his hand on my thigh. His palm was warm and strong, a comfort.
The sound of the TV came up through the vent. Mom would be down there in her chair, pencil hovered over her crossword, flicker shadow of light and dark across her face.
Bill said, “How are you feeling about things now?” That question held all the questions he didn’t ask: Would I stay? Would I keep loving him? Would I try to push, threaten, bully him into having a child? Didn’t I see that even though he didn’t want a child he wanted everything else with me?
I turned my whole body to him. “Don’t worry.” I looked in his eyes. “I’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.”
He held his eyes on mine, looking for the truth in what I said.
I leaned past him and turned off the lamp. “Good night,” I said.
I turned onto my back and looked up at the grid shadow made by the light coming through the vent on the floor, breathed the dust and memories of my old bedroom. I wished I could go back to the way I’d been before, when I didn’t have this burden of my wanting.