Then tomorrow became another tomorrow.
That was the first time Brandon understood the cruelty of what he had done without needing me to translate it for him.
Not the fishing itself.
The assumption underneath it.
My time belonged to the family.
His time still belonged to him.
At the end of thirty days, Brandon asked me to come home.
I didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, I opened the same notebook I had started during his trip.
I had kept using it.
But the pages looked different now.
Brandon’s name appeared beside bedtime.
Beside pharmacy pickup.
Beside pediatric appointment.
Beside Saturday morning bottles.
Beside laundry.
The work hadn’t disappeared.
It had become visible because two people were finally carrying it.
“I’m willing to try,” I told him.
His shoulders dropped with relief.
I raised my hand.
“Try doesn’t mean going back to how things were.”
“I know.”
