My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

He tried to grade essays at the dining room table. The students’ writing—introductory reflections on attachment styles and early caregiving—swam before his eyes. He made coffee he didn’t drink. He opened the refrigerator and closed it again. He stood in Owen’s room and looked at the rumpled comforter, the stuffed fox propped against the pillow, the night-light shaped like a moon. He sat on the edge of the bed and remembered how, three weeks earlier, Owen had clung to his hand and whispered, “Can I sleep in your room tonight?” Marsha had rolled her eyes and said, “He’s playing you.”

Had he been?

At 5:11, William texted Marsha: How’s he doing?

No answer.

At 5:19: Please let me know.

At 5:34, she replied: Fine.

That single word made something inside him twist tighter, not looser. He stared at the screen, then typed: Did he calm down?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Eventually: Stop hovering.