“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.
“Do you?”
His head snapped toward me.
“God, no. Michael once put a Lego in the toaster.”
I burst out laughing.
Then Greg smiled faintly.
“I just miss being the person somebody called when the dark felt too scary.”
That silenced me.
I realized how often I’d responded to his sadness with logic.
The kids were successful.
They were independent.
That was the goal.
All of those things were true.
But being proud of the people our children became didn’t mean Greg couldn’t grieve the version of himself they no longer needed.
Still, I pointed toward the guest bed.
“None of this excuses lying to me.”
Greg gave me a guilty smile.
“I know.”
“You let me believe you were avoiding sleeping beside me.”
“I didn’t want you to think I was losing my mind.”
“I thought you were hiding something awful.”
He winced.
“That’s fair.”
I looked down at Susan.
“You were so afraid your sadness would bother me that you turned it into a secret that started hurting our marriage instead.”
Greg didn’t argue.
A tiny cry came from the box nearby.
He immediately started to stand.
I caught his wrist.
“Before anything else, we’re calling the rescue.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
By 4:30 that morning, both kittens had been examined by the rescue’s emergency veterinarian.
They were cold and hungry but otherwise stable.
The woman at the desk recognized Greg as soon as we walked in.
She looked at the kittens and smiled.
“Another one with a retirement-home name?”
I slowly turned toward my husband.
Greg sighed.
“There was also a Charlie.”
Apparently, six months of volunteering contained more stories than he’d admitted.
On the drive home, Greg finally sent Michael and Emma a picture of the kittens.
Michael called less than thirty seconds later.
“Dad, why are two kittens wrapped in my baby blanket?”
Greg rolled his eyes.
“You’re thirty years old, Mike.”
“Still my blanket.”
Emma joined the call moments later.
For several minutes, they teased their father relentlessly about naming kittens Susan and Steve.
Then Michael became quieter.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you’re allowed to miss us, right?”
Greg swallowed.
“I know.”
Emma spoke next.
“We miss you too.”
Then, without hesitation, she added,
“Also, my kitchen sink started making that weird noise again.”
Greg instantly sat straighter.
“What noise?”
I turned toward the window so no one would see me smile.
That night, Greg picked up his pillow.
I watched him head toward the guest room.
“Where are you going?”
