The coffee pot vibrated slightly under my hand as the heat continued rising from the stove. I forced myself to turn off the burner and pour coffee into two mugs because I needed a few extra seconds to think clearly.
“Our son Logan is also unique, just so you remember,” I added quietly.
“Logan spends most of the day at daycare and he is perfectly fine,” Calvin answered with impatience. “My mother needs constant care right now.”
His mother, Eleanor Whitaker, had recently broken her leg after slipping on a staircase. The injury was inconvenient but far from catastrophic. At sixty five she was energetic, independent, and socially active, the kind of woman who attended theater shows downtown, met friends for long coffee conversations, and somehow still found time to insert herself into every aspect of our family life whenever she visited.
Calling her helpless would have been a dramatic exaggeration.
“When is she arriving,” I asked while sliding a mug of coffee toward him.
“Next Monday morning,” he replied.
The casual tone of his answer made one thing painfully obvious.