The question blindsided me in the least dramatic place possible:
the bath.
Steam fogged the mirror; the small, palace‑issue tub was half full of lukewarm water and too many plastic animals. My son sat in it, hair slicked back, Wolfie perched on the rim like a disapproving lifeguard. I knelt on the mat, sleeves rolled, trying to convince soap to stay out of his eyes.
He squinted up at me through damp lashes. “Mama?”
“Mm?” I said, fishing a duck out from under his knee.
“What’s home?” he asked.
The word slid under my skin like a blade. “That’s a big question for someone whose most important decision ten minutes ago was ‘blue cup or green.’”
“Wolf says we need to know,” he insisted, utterly serious. “For later.”
I set the duck on the edge of the tub, buying myself a heartbeat.
“What
