“Go treat yourself to something nice for lunch.”

“The second mortgage papers are still lying on the dining room table,” I said, pointing toward the open archway.

He got up from the armchair, leaned down over my seat and kissed my forehead softly.

His breath smelled clean, like peppermint gum.

“Don’t worry about the house or the loan papers right now,” he whispered.

“Just think about yourself and the baby.”

He picked his heavy leather briefcase up off the couch cushion, his dress shoes making almost no noise on the living room rug.