When I entered my house, I first noticed no one came to meet me.
Not my wife.
Not the housekeeper.
Not even the soft, restless cry of my newborn son.
I stood inside the marble entryway of our Belle Meade home with a bouquet of pale ivory roses in one hand and my overnight bag in the other, listening to a silence that felt wrong.
For nine days, I pictured this moment differently.
I pictured Corinne sitting upstairs in the nursery with Owen against her chest, exhausted from another sleepless night.
I pictured her expression changing when she heard my key in the lock.
Maybe she would be hurt that I stayed away longer than expected.
Maybe disappointed.
But she would be relieved too.
She always forgave me.
And I brought roses.
I always brought roses.
It embarrasses me now to admit that I once believed flowers could erase absence.
