Blood started dripping from Grant's hand, sliding down his wrist and along his arm. Before I could even move, Mom came downstairs and saw everything the shattered calm, the report on the table, the red stains spreading where they shouldn't be.
Mom knelt beside him with the first-aid kit. Grant looked like he hadn't slept at all. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow. He tried to pull his injured hand away, almost instinctively hiding it like shame.
Mom caught his wrist gently and held it in place. Then she dipped cotton into iodine and began to clean the wound slowly, carefully. Her movements were calm, steady, almost clinical like she was forcing peace into the room with her hands.
"These next three days," she said softly, "I'm still your wife."
Grant didn't answer. He leaned back against the sofa, his other hand wiping at tears that fell without sound. Mom kept working, wrapping the bandage around his knuckles, tightening it just enough.
