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Summary
“How old are you?” he asks out of the blue, because he truly doesn’t know.
She looks at him a little incredulously, in that way that he knows she doesn’t want him to notice just how much the question bothers her. See, he knows these things, but he doesn’t know his wife’s age. He’s not sure what that says about him.
“Nineteen.”
“Fuck.”
“My mother had me at eighteen.” Which means she’d had Daphne at sixteen.
“Fuck,” he stresses again, because fuck. He was supposed to have it together by now, he’s known it all his life. He hasn’t felt more fractured ever before.
It’s only been a little less than three years since the war. His left forearm still itches constantly.