The Good Guy

We stood on the back porch in the late afternoon, crying hard but quiet so the kids wouldn't hear, and looked at each other. After, tired, we fell asleep on the couch, which we hadn't done in years. When we moved into this house, we found a garden, and that first summer, I picked tomatoes, squash, my hands passing over what needed more time, what had fallen to the ground, rotting or half-eaten. When the season ended, we let the grass spread over the dirt and whatever else was buried there. I woke up in the early evening to a sadness like something I could point to, a painting you hung on the wall, a silver bowl you filled with coins from countries you might never see again. I could hear the boys playing in the next room—Now, I get to be the bad guy, until one stopped the game to say, I'm hungry. Me, too, the other said, and you got up slowly and made your way to the kitchen.