What he asked, in a tight, controlled voice, was: “Where did you take him?” “Somewhere you aren’t,” I said.

And then I asked the only question that mattered to me.

“Why was he asleep on the kitchen floor, Gideon?” His answer came too fast, already assembled, the answer of a man who had prepared it.

“He must’ve gotten out of bed.

Kids do that, Bernice.

Bring him home and we’ll talk about it.” For just a second — I am not proud of this — I wanted that to be true.

I wanted the easy version, the one where my son was a restless sleeper and my husband was merely careless, because that version did not require me to blow up my entire life before breakfast.