She sits on the floor of his dark room, legs crossed and motionless. She doesn't want to make a sound. The floor didn't used to make noise. It was new when he arrived. Three years later, it’s been tip-toed, crawled, rolled, wrestled, stomped, and fallen upon. His Strider bike glides across it almost daily. The Tonka truck and wagon bear heavy loads of Legos, books, and stuffed friends almost constantly. Yes, it was once a quiet place to walk, but not any longer.
She knows that even a small movement will be enough to rouse him. His left foot is dangling off the side of the bed. She’s torn. She wants to grab him and snuggle him close. Take him back to the bedroom with her. But she needs real sleep. She misses snuggling close to her husband.
She wonders if this will make tomorrow challenging. He’s always happiest when he’s most secure. That’s true of most of us. Will he remember how hard he cried and stared at her with confusion, his heart a little more broken than just minutes before? Will he remember that he put his hands up and out, as if to say, "What am I supposed to do, Mama?"
She will.
