In the morning, I awaken feeling much better. The sun peeks in around my room-darkening blinds. I rise to a sense of peace that was woefully absent the night before. I try not to think about my dream, because who would that benefit? Instead I attempt to convince myself that it was just that and find reassurance in the fact that I have a good relationship with my son.
I’ll call him today and see when he can come over for dinner. No one is better company in the kitchen than my Tate, even if he’s just sitting on a stool, talking about his latest date, how much he hates his job, or how he’d like to quit smoking but just can’t seem to.
I turn my head, and Ezra has moved back to the pillow beside me. He eyes me with a kind of wisdom. If I were to allow my flight of fancy the freedom to soar, I
