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.
