But for the fact that I’m seething, I’d probably have burst out laughing at the sight of him. Instead, I stare at him, and I hope he’s going to say something—anything—to display even just a little empathy.

“It’s days like these,” he says, starting exactly as I need him to, but finishing the sentence with an utterly disappointing focus on Callie, “I think we should think about streaming her into a class with older gifted kids who are operating at the same level as she is. She’s not some regular gifted kid—she’s highly gifted, so it’s frustrating for her to have to—”

“No,” I say, far too sharply. He falls silent, and I drag in a steadying breath, then try to soften my tone. This is a well-worn argument—because I’m determined that Callie has some age-appropriate friends as well as academic challenge, and Wade seems to think friends are somewhat overrated and just wants her to work at the limit of her potential. “I’m sorry. I just can’t have this conversation again, not today. Please—tomorrow?”

He hesitates, then nods, and he belatedly asks, “Okay. How did you go with Babcia?”

“I’ll tell you about it once I eat,” I sigh. “What are you cooking? Something smells good.”

“It’s just some chicken steaks and vegetables.”

He leads the way into the kitchen and I see the chaos—pots and pans all over the benches, open packets of ingredients on every conceivable surface, even offcuts from vegetables on the floor. This man literally understands how to create and manipulate nanoparticles to do all kinds of semimagical medical and industrial things, but he cannot get his head around the rule that if you drop something, you pick it up. But I can’t yell at him about the kitchen being messy, because technically he’s helping me right now, even though I know he will serve up the meal, eat it, and then retire to his study to catch up on the work he missed this afternoon, and I’ll be left with the disaster zone of a kitchen.

That’s a problem for later. He’s in the kitchen now, and so for now, it’s his problem, and I’m going to snatch some time for myself while I can. I walk straight to the cupboard, withdraw a bottle of merlot and pour myself a glass.

“Wade,” I say. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m about to praise him or thank him. He’s visibly disappointed when I instead ask, “Can you bring me a plate of dinner when it’s ready?”

“Going to eat in the bath tonight?”

The man has some redeeming qualities—at least he knows me every bit as well as I know him.

“I most definitely am. Do you have a problem with that?”

Wade smirks, then shakes his head.

“Honey, we’ve been married a long time, so I’m very aware that there’s not much you won’t do in a bathtub.”

I drink half the wine in one long gulp, then top the glass off before I take a few steps toward the door. An afterthought hits me, so I turn back to the cupboard, withdraw a can of soup and pass it to Wade.

“Eddie needs to eat too. See you soon. Thanks, and...don’t skimp on the potato?”

* * *

I soak in the bath until my skin has wrinkled. It’s my only refuge sometimes, and Wade is right—there’s not much I can’t accomplish as the relaxed, bathtub version of myself. I do hours of reading whenever we encounter a new challenge with Eddie, and most of the time I do that on the iPad or my Kindle here in the bath. Wade used to worry that I’d electrocute myself one day, so he installed a spring-loaded cable to the ceiling. Now, if I drop my device, it bounces up instead of falling into the water.

This place—the gleaming white tiles, the soothing weightlessness of the water, the magnificent, restorative silence—this is where my thoughts flow uninterrupted. Callie knows not to disturb me in the bath, and although Eddie will eventually seek me out if he needs me, most of the time he’ll just sit in whatever problem he’s gotten himself into until I come find him. That’s an issue most of the time. It’s a blessing when it comes to my bath time.

I luxuriate in the bath. I am still in the bath—completely motionless, but for the gentle movements of my arms as I read. In every other sphere of my life, I constantly feel like I’m rushing—but not here. This is the only treat I give myself, but I take it greedily—during stressful periods, I take a bath every single day. And yes, on days like today, I’m not above a glass of wine or two here—or even dinner. I can’t say chicken steak is a particularly bath-friendly meal, but I make it work. Then, when the water has cooled for the second time, I sigh and return to the real world.

Next, I convince Eddie to take his melatonin—the only way he’ll sleep more than a few hours. Then, I convince Eddie to half clean his teeth, a task he still hates, even though I’ve tried every special needs toothbrush, toothpaste flavor and technique known to humankind. Then I convince Eddie to climb into bed, and once he’s settled, I call past my daughter’s room. She’s reading—she’s always reading—so much so that it’s a challenge to find texts that are complex enough to engage her but don’t cover themes that are just too mature for her emotionally. Tonight, she’s engrossed in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for the umpteenth time, and when I kiss her good-night, she barely looks up from the page.

Not ready to apologize yet, then. I know it’ll come, so I tell her I love her and leave her be.

There’s no more prolonging the inevitable—that kitchen needs attention, so I head there next. It takes over an hour to undo the damage Wade did cooking tonight, and just as I suspected, he’s nowhere to be seen. I try not to resent that, because he did help me out today, and in doing so, he significantly exceeded my expectations. Still, my thoughts wander back to Babcia as I clean, and I think about how much easier this whole situation would be if Wade was different—Wade, not Eddie. I can’t let myself wish Eddie was different. Even letting that thought linger in my mind would feel like a betrayal to my son.

When I finally wander into the bedroom Wade and I share, I’m surprised to find he’s in the bedroom too—I assumed he was in his study working, but he’s had a shower and he’s pulling on his pajamas. I sit on the bed and watch him dress.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

The offer is surprising, but it’s most definitely welcome. I lean back into the pillows and tuck my legs up, then wrap my arms around them, pulling myself smaller as if that will make me stronger.

“Babcia keeps asking for Pa.”

“Poor Babcia,” Wade sighs. “Has she...forgotten?”

“I don’t think so. Mom thinks she’s confused, but... I’m starting to think she wants something else. Maybe she wants some information about Pa, but she doesn’t know how to ask.”