–Damon–
I sighed, staring into the distance, waiting for my wife to come home. She just vanished—gone without a trace. I don't know how long she plans to stay away, but she said she won't be home. Damn it. She just gave birth, and yes, it's been over a month now, but still… she should be here. With me. With us.
"It's just you and me," I muttered, cradling my son against my chest. His tiny hand clutched the fabric of my shirt, and his faint coo melted whatever remained of my composure. "Should we eat something and just get lazy, huh?"
"Damon!" My mother's voice cut through the air, sharp as a blade.
I turned my head. "What?"
"He needs to be changed," she said.
"Huh?"
"It's time for his diaper and clothes," she clarified, exasperated.
"Oh." I blinked, looking down at my boy. "Wow."
Mom sighed as if she was watching a lost cause. "You need to change your baby's clothes at least three times a day—and especially if he spits up on them."
