I’d watched those same hands hold Michael. Then Emma.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed.
“Greg…”
He kept his eyes on Susan.
“Do you miss them?”
He gave me a puzzled look.
“The kids?”
“No,” I said.
I struggled to find the question.
“Being Dad like that,” I finally asked.
“Do you miss them?”
His hand stopped.
Susan kept drinking.
For several seconds, the only sound in the room was the tiny pull of the bottle.
Then Greg looked down at her.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“They’re adults. They’re doing great.”
“I’m aware.”
“They’re adults. They’re doing great.”
“Michael’s got a career he loves. Emma finally bought that condo.”
“I know.”
“We did our job.”
I waited.
Greg held his breath for a beat.
Then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said: “Nobody needs me at two in the morning anymore.”
“We did our job.”
***
I remembered Greg checking Emma’s oil before road trips, keeping Michael’s old flashlight because “it still works,” and standing in Emma’s empty room after she moved out.
I’d called it success. Maybe I’d answered a different question.
I’d called it success.
“After Emma moved out,” Greg said, “you said you finally remembered what it felt like to wake up because you were finished sleeping.”
My smile faded.
I barely remembered saying it.
“I thought you were happy,” he said.
“I was,” I admitted.
“Exactly.”
“I thought you were happy.”
And suddenly I understood why he’d hidden six months of volunteering from me.
Not because he thought I’d be angry about the kittens.
Because he thought I’d think something about him.
“What did you think I’d say?”
Greg shifted Susan higher against his chest.
“I don’t know.”
I understood why he’d hidden six months of volunteering from me.
“That’s not true.”
He looked away.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “I thought you’d think it was pathetic.”
I stared at him.
“Missing the kids?”
He shook his head. “Missing being needed.”
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