It’s a few weeks later and I have almost gotten used to all this, except for the occasional shot of tension in my gut when my brain puts together just exactly what is going on, what I’m participating in, condoning, who is seeing who and who is just quietly carrying on life.

Wednesday. A rare day when Lolly and Sadee have gone for a walk to the park, but Grady has stayed home with me. The two of us, but he’s busy on his phone as usual, cross-legged on the big armchair, and I’m listening to a podcast about how relationships fail. My chin is on my chest and sometimes I nod off, jolting awake at irregular intervals and immediately wondering what nugget of satisfying explanation I might have missed.

I hear, I hear, I hear something, and then I see Grady in front of me with his lips moving. I remove the headphones.

“Hey, what is it, son?” I ask.

“What’s going on with Mom.”

I pause for the three seconds that adults do when they are about to embark on a conversation of lies.

“Wh— What do you mean?”

“Well, she never used to go anywhere. I liked it when she would take a break from her work at her job at home, I mean, a break from working with the computer and papers and everything because she always said she had to get ready for next week—I liked that, and she still does it sometimes, but now she goes out of the house like right after dinner sometimes, and sometimes I don’t even see her till the morning.”

The adult pause again.

“I think she’s extra busy these days, Grady. She told me something about a new boss and so she has to impress her, you know, make sure that the new boss knows that your mom is doing a good job.”

“But why can’t she do that from here, like, from here in the house? How come she has to go out?”

I utter a chuckle so fake I’m disgusted with myself.

“Well she can’t get access, I mean, she can’t download all the files and stuff she needs on her laptop here. There’s paper stuff too and she needs to go in and read that too.”

Grady’s face is blank. I can’t tell if he’s considering how this bullshit can’t possibly be true, or whether he now understands what I mean. What reason would I have not to tell him the truth?

“Okay,” he says, seeming consoled, “but I’m going to chat with her too. I’m going to try to get her to only go in once a week or something like that.”

“That’s a good idea. You should talk to her about it. But I’m not sure if she can change it, you know, with the new boss and everything.”

“I’m going to try anyway.”

I smile at him and he takes that as approval, and then turns around and goes back to the chair and his phone. I watch him and he’s focused. It’s like I’m not even here.