“Early meeting,” he said. “Big client. I gotta run.” He grabbed the coffee I’d poured for him and headed for the door.He didn’t kiss me. He usually kissed me. On the cheek, fast, on his way out. It was a habit, like brushing his teeth. That morning, he didn’t.
He’s trying to act normal, I thought. So I won’t suspect anything.
Pete came down next. He’s nineteen, our oldest. He works at a sporting goods store downtown, six blocks from the house. He was rushing, like always. Pete is always rushing and always late.
“Mom, where’s my name tag?”
“On the hook by the door.”
He grabbed it and was gone.
Then Mike. Seventeen. Our middle son. He came into the kitchen holding his head like it hurt.
“Mom. My gym bag. I can’t find my gym bag. I have practice after school and I can’t find it anywhere.”“It’s hanging on the back of your chair,” I said. “Right there. Where I told you it was last night.”
He turned around. There was the gym bag. Hanging on the back of his chair. He picked it up and walked out without a word.
And then Justin. Fourteen. Our baby. He stood in front of the open pantry for a long time.
