Twenty minutes passed—the dishes were done and I'd moved on to laundry, before I remembered that, in anticipation of Lori's visit, he'd taken off the week between Christmas and New Year's. New Year's Eve came and went, a quiet night at home with our sons, playing games, singing along with Nate at the piano and avoiding all reflection on what the next year would bring. I stared at the keys Keith had chipped all those years ago, worrying about this new child. We were al in bed and asleep well before midnight. And a week later Nate still hadn't said anything about the baby. He asked how I was feeling, asked if everything was okay—and that was it. Wanting to give him time to adjust, I didn't push, but I latched on to those oblique references, inferring his love, his concern for me and the baby, his involvement in this unexpected phase of our lives, in those two questions. He repeated them daily. He played the piano every night that week. I was falling asleep early, so I wasn't even sure what time he finally came to bed.
