Daniel and I are not perfect. We argue about small things, like whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher, whether we should repaint the hallway, and if Ava is ready for swim lessons. Beneath all of that, though, we are steady. We are solid. We have built something dependable together.
At least, that is what I believed.
Daniel’s mother, Margaret, lives about forty minutes away in a tidy neighborhood where every lawn is trimmed with mathematical precision, and neighbors wave as if it is written into a contract. Margaret is the kind of grandmother who keeps every finger painting, bakes too many cookies, and maintains an emergency stash of craft supplies “just in case.”
Ava worships her.
Margaret adores Ava in return.
So when Margaret asked if Ava could spend the weekend at her house, I did not hesitate. It actually felt good. Daniel and I had not had a quiet weekend in months.
On Friday afternoon, I packed Ava’s small pink suitcase with her favorite pajamas, her stuffed fox, and the sparkly toothbrush she insists makes her teeth “extra clean.”
“Be good for Grandma,” I said, kneeling to zip up her bag.
“I’m always good,” she replied with theatrical offense.
Daniel drove her over while I stayed home to finish some work. When he came back alone, the house felt unusually still. No cartoons were playing and no toys scattered across the living room floor.
The weekend passed gently. I cleaned out the refrigerator, caught up on laundry, and watched two entire movies without interruption, which felt almost decadent. Daniel and I ordered takeout and ate at the dining table instead of hovering over the kitchen counter between constant disruptions.
