At Your Service. Priscila Uppal

Michael and I had missed putting them to bed, and we were anxious to see their faces, to read them, though we couldn’t even read our own. I kept turning to Michael as if I’d spot a code, a clear indication of where his grief was contained, and I would be able to mend it like a sock or replace it like a bulb, but my shock had not even budged yet. The children, we said, and it echoed across the kitchen from all of our lips like tender secrets. The children. Do you remember when you were getting ready for your first night out after the split and you told me how weird it felt to tell people you’d just met that you were separated? I said I hated the word because it made someone sound incomplete. “Well, I’m certainly not together,” you replied, your head tilted back, chin punched out as you fumbled with the eyelash curler.