I frowned.
“Steve?”
He nodded toward the second kitten.
“Susan’s sibling.”
“So you volunteered our house?”
“Temporarily.”
“Our guest room too?”
“Also temporarily.”
“And apparently our bed.”
Greg glanced toward the ceiling.
“Technically, I volunteered myself out of that.”
I crossed my arms.
“So your back never hurt?”
He looked embarrassed.
“It actually does now.”
“Because you’ve spent three weeks sleeping in this room?”
“Possibly.”
I covered my face with my hands.
Then another thought returned.
“The blanket.”
Greg looked toward Susan.
She was curled against my chest inside the faded blue knitting.
“Why this blanket?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve protected that thing through three house moves.”
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t even let me throw away Michael’s kindergarten lunchbox because you said it had historical importance.”
“It had dinosaur stickers.”
“It smelled like twenty-year-old peanut butter.”
“History isn’t always pleasant, darling.”
“Greg.”
His expression changed.
He reached out and touched the edge of the blanket.
“When I first picked her up, she was freezing.”
“So?”
“I needed something soft and warm.”
“There are twelve towels in this house.”
“I know.”
“Then why Michael’s blanket? And why was it already missing before tonight?”
Greg lowered himself into the old rocking chair.
Susan stirred against me.
Without thinking, Greg held out his arms.
I passed her back.
He wrapped the blanket around her with practiced hands, tested the temperature of the bottle against his wrist, then settled her into the crook of his elbow.
I watched every movement.
I’d never seen Greg feed a kitten before.
But I’d seen those exact hands doing the same thing decades earlier.
First with Michael.
Then with Emma.
Support the head.
Tilt the bottle.
Rub the back.
Wait.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed.
“Greg.”
He didn’t look up.
“Do you miss them?”
He frowned.
“The kids?”
“No.”
I searched for the right words.
“Do you miss being Dad like this?”
His hand went still.
Susan continued drinking.
For several moments, the only sound was the tiny pull of her mouth against the bottle.
Finally, Greg looked down at her.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“They’re adults. They’re happy. They’re doing well.”
“I know.”
“Michael has a career he loves. Emma finally bought that condo she wanted.”
“I know.”
“We did what we were supposed to do.”
I said nothing.
Greg took a breath.
And then, in a voice so quiet I nearly missed it, he said,
“Nobody needs me at two in the morning anymore.”
The sentence landed harder than I expected.
Suddenly, small moments from the past few years came back to me.
Greg checking Emma’s tire pressure whenever she visited.
Greg refusing to throw away Michael’s old flashlight because “it still works.”
Greg standing silently in Emma’s empty bedroom after she moved away.
I had always looked at our children’s independence as proof that we’d succeeded as parents.
Maybe Greg had been asking a completely different question.
“After Emma moved out,” he said, “you told me you finally remembered what it was like to wake up because you’d finished sleeping, not because somebody needed you.”
My smile disappeared.
I barely remembered saying that.
“I thought you were happy,” he continued.
“I was.”
“Exactly.”
And suddenly, I understood.
He hadn’t hidden the rescue work because he thought I’d be angry about animals.
He’d hidden it because he was embarrassed by what the volunteering meant to him.
“What did you think I’d say?”
Greg adjusted Susan against his chest.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked away.
I waited.
Finally, he admitted it.
“I thought you’d think it was pathetic.”
My heart sank.
“Missing the kids?”
He shook his head.
“Missing being needed.”
I sat beside him.
“Greg, missing that part of your life doesn’t mean you want Michael and Emma to become children again.”
He nodded slowly.
