they have become witnesses to something private.
I looked at Sylvia.
Then Ethan.
He was holding his coat.
And waiting.
That was the moment everything became clear to me.
Ethan had learned to wait.
Wait for someone else to decide.
Wait for someone else to handle things.
Wait until discomfort disappeared.
He had learned that if he waited long enough, another person—usually a woman—would eventually take responsibility.
Sylvia had arrived to continue that lesson.
I stood.
Adjusted June against my chest.
Then looked directly at my husband.
“Ethan.”
“Rachel.”
“I
