The joke got too true.
He missed Thanksgiving.
He called at four in the afternoon.
“Emergency case, babe.”
“Save me some stuffing.”
I saved him a plate.
He never ate it.
He missed our anniversary in February.
He texted me a photo of a bouquet he’d ordered.
The flowers came.
He didn’t.
And in June, he missed Poppy’s eighth birthday.
All of it.
The cake.
The candles.
The piñata shaped like a unicorn.
Poppy kept running to the front window.
“Is Daddy’s car here yet?”
It wasn’t.
It didn’t pull in until after nine.
By then, she’d fallen asleep in her party dress.
He carried her up to bed without a word.
I thought he looked guilty.
I thought it was the job.
Everything was the job that year.
He left before the sun came up.
He came home after dark.
Some nights, he didn’t come home at all.
“We’re down two surgeons,” he’d tell me.
“Somebody has to cover.”
I believed him.
Why wouldn’t I?
He’d never lied to me about anything bigger than who ate the last cookie.
And he looked exhausted.
Hollow around the eyes.
Ten pounds thinner.
One night in August, I woke at two.
Nate was sitting at the foot of our bed in the dark.
Perfectly still.
Except his back.
His back was shaking.
“Nate?”
He rubbed his face hard before he turned around.
“Lost a fight today,” he said.
“It happens.”
“Lie back down, Laur.”
I lay back down.
I stayed awake until the window turned gray.
That’s when I decided.
I couldn’t fix his hours.
I couldn’t fix his hospital.
But I could make him lunch.
So that Tuesday, I got up at five.
I made his favorite meatloaf sandwich on rye.
I wrapped a slice of pecan pie in wax paper.
I wrote a note on the back of a grocery receipt.
You carry everybody.
Let me carry you, just for one lunch.
I slid it under the plastic fork.
At six, he came downstairs in his scrubs.
He kissed my forehead.
He clipped his badge to his pocket.
“Might be late,” he said.
