call,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“I’m not going to answer.”
“I know.”
Ellie ran into the kitchen, rabbit under one arm. “Daddy, can we have whipped cream?” Ryan looked at me. I looked at him. Whipped cream on a Friday morning. Our kitchen. Our pancakes. Our child asking for something small and getting it without a committee meeting or a guilt trip or a toast where continue reading …
