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Deirdre couldn’t quite remember what had happened yesterday.
Something had happened, or at least she had thought that it had. But then again, Arthur said he couldn’t remember it either, and neither of them was usually prone to forgetfulness, so maybe it hadn’t happened. The morning news had mentioned something about some sort of freak weather events that had caused mass hallucinations around the globe, so maybe that was it.
In any case, for the second night in a row, she found herself quietly pushing open the door to Adam’s room and looking in on her sleeping son.
She didn’t do this often, anymore. Adam was eleven now, a big boy, and it was long past the days when she and Arthur would sit on the edge of the bed and sing him to sleep. Still, tonight… she wanted to see him.
That new Dog of his was up on the bed, snoring, Deirdre realized when she peered through the doorway, recognizing the smaller lump beside the boy. Arthur would probably disapprove. “Keep him off the furniture” had almost certainly been one of the conditions when they’d agreed to let Adam have a pet, though for whatever reason Deirdre couldn’t entirely remember that conversation either.
On the other hand, it wasn’t as if Dog was doing any harm by being on the bed, so long as he behaved himself otherwise. That bed had seen far worse than a few dog hairs in its time belonging to Adam. She smiled wryly to herself at some of the more chaotic memories. Even on his own, Adam had never exactly been a child known for calmness. And that bed had hosted many a sleepover with his friends, too.
On a sudden impulse, she moved forward, all the way into the room, and tip-toed over to the side of the bed. Neither of the sleeping pair moved or opened their eyes.
Adam’s covers were a tangled mess, his hair tousled on the pillow, testament to an active and no doubt tiring day. Arthur had been annoyed with him for going through the hedge earlier when he was supposed to be grounded; but really, they both knew their son well enough. What else could they have expected?
Gently, eleven years of practice echoing in the movement, she reached down and pulled at the blanket, tucking the edges in around the sleeping form of her child. Dog stirred as the surface below him moved, then settled back to snoring.
She bent, then, brushing golden curls off her son’s forehead, and kissed his brow as she had not done for years.
He moved a little, making a soft sound, and for a moment Deirdre thought she’d woken him. But no, when she straightened and looked down, he was lying still and fast asleep. A small snore of his own escaped.
One last bend, tug, and smoothing of the blanket, and then — smiling again — she turned and left the room as quietly as she had entered.
She returned to the master bedroom and slipped into bed beside Arthur, who opened his eyes to give her a questioning look.
Deirdre shrugged. “We’ve got a good boy,” she whispered.
“Hmph,” Arthur grunted, the mutter of objection belied by the fond smile on his face. “I don’t know that ‘good’ is the first word that comes to mind. Tyler would certainly say otherwise.”
“Luckily, you know better than to listen to R. P. Tyler.” She laughed softly. “And you know what I mean, too.”
“I do,” he admitted. He put an arm around her. “He’s a handful, no denying that. But, well… I’m glad he’s our handful.”
Deirdre snuggled into her husband’s side, feeling the peace and quiet of another uneventful night at home settle over the room, and closed her eyes. It didn’t really matter what had happened yesterday, after all. What mattered was the present. What mattered was that she was here, now, with Arthur beside her and their son in the next room over, all of them safe, sound, and together.
Arthur’s breathing was already slowing, falling back into the steady rhythm of sleep. But still… “Me, too,” Deirdre murmured back, into his ear. “I’m glad Adam’s ours.”