Two Tiny Punctures in My Son’s Hospital Cup Led to a Timeline My Husband Couldn’t Explain

I was following them, not guessing from memory or changing anything because I was worried.

The notebook lay closed beside my phone.

I didn’t open it to record that he had poured milk.

“Can we have scrambled eggs tomorrow?” he asked.

“After your opinion of hospital eggs?”

He grinned.

“Those were bad.”

“They were.”