That Saturday night, I tried to talk him into at least coming home to sleep. He told me he couldn’t.
Because of “what happens in Mom’s room on Saturdays.”
Two months earlier, I was on a work trip when my mother called. I still remember exactly where I was standing: outside a conference room, staring through a window at a parking garage six floors below, irritated that the meeting had run late.
“Jeremy, you need to come home.”
Something in the way she said my name made my stomach drop.
“What happened?”
“It’s Emma. She’s in the hospital. She’s in a coma. Noah’s with her, and he won’t leave the room, and you need to drop everything and get here.”
I didn’t let her finish. I grabbed my bag and left.
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