“Go upstairs and get ready for bed.” She pauses, eyes flicking to the clock on the stove. It’s only nine. “You…want me to go to bed?” That tone—uncertainty laced with disbelief—is the first actual glimpse of her I’ve seen since last night. I stab my fork into the casserole and blow on it, calmly announcing, “You’ll be sleeping in my bed from now on.”
