The phone screen glowed harsh in the darkness: 1:01 AM. Mom’s name and photo—a picture from last Christmas where she actually looked happy—illuminated my nightstand. My husband Matt slept through the buzzing like he slept through everything, his breathing steady and oblivious beside me.I should have let it go to voicemail.
Nothing good happens at one in the morning. But forty years of conditioning doesn’t dissolve just because you know better, so I swiped to answer with a hand that already knew it was making a mistake.
