One morning my husband said, “I’m going over there.” We walked together, each step a small negotiation. He pushed the gate open hard enough to rattle the hinge. Mr. Bennett sat in his chair with the newspaper folded on his lap. He set it aside and stood.
“So you’re Mr. Bennett,” my husband said, jaw tight.
Heat rose in my face. “Please,” I said. “Not like this.”
“How long?” my husband asked, not moving his eyes from mine. The truth was between us already, like weather.
“Talk to me,” he demanded.
“Talk to me,” Mr. Bennett countered, “but do not raise your voice at her. If blame is required, write my name on it. But leave hers in peace.”
“What can you give her?” my husband shot back.
“What you dropped,” Mr. Bennett said quietly. “Time. Care. Kindness.”
Something inside me—some long-tired part—sat down in relief at hearing the inventory named so plainly.
My husband looked at the floor, then at me. “Then stay,” he said, and walked out, the door closing like a verdict. I sank to the rug, tears finally allowed. Mr. Bennett came down to the floor beside me—old bones, young tenderness—and held my hand until my breath learned a slower pace.
