She put an arm around my shoulder. “You know, I’m telling you this because you’re my child, and I don’t want to lose you any more than you want to lose him. I’ve often thought that if we just put all our energy into raising the next generation, and they do the same and so on and so on, it makes us no better than ants, really, or bees. Save something for yourself. Good-bye dear, be well.”

She kissed me on the cheek and left then, and I hated her, too, for a while. No one understood. I cried. No one else must come near him, I thought, and was fierce, for they would hurt him and make him less than I knew he was. Only I understood.

For months I went nowhere, because I couldn’t leave Elliott, could trust no one else to look after him. I refused to visit friends, and when people came over, which they did with less and less frequency, they fussed over Elliott and I grew gritty, and they didn’t stay long. I was lost to conversation, for always most of my attention was elsewhere with the baby, tuned to any sound, any whimper, any cry, probably even any sigh. Elliott was my world and I wanted just to be left alone with him. I didn’t even want to talk about him, although he so completely occupied my mind, because I felt somehow that talking about him took him a distance away, made him separate, gave a piece of him to someone else.

Stephen must have grown more and more disturbed, although I didn’t notice it. I was noticing nothing but Elliott, had seen nothing else for months, and there was no space in my vision for Stephen any more.

Finally he spoke. (I wonder now at the awesome patience that made him be still for so long.)

“Listen Abra,” he began awkwardly, “I think there are a couple of things we need to talk about, about the way we’re living.” I looked at him vaguely, not knowing what he meant. I knew how we were living and it was all right; what did he want to talk about?

“I’d like it if we could go out for dinner,” he said. “We’ll make a night of it, we haven’t been out for months, and we’ll have a chance to talk and maybe get some things straight. It’ll give us a break, I’m sure you must need one. You’ve been cooped up for months.”

“No,” I said. I was flat, surprised, harsh. “I can’t go out, you know that. There’s Elliott.”

“We’ll get a sitter. He’s almost six months old, he isn’t going to break.” There was anger now in Stephen’s voice, and yet I felt adamant that there was no choice.

“Who?” I asked sarcastically. “Some teenager from down the street who doesn’t know how to change a diaper? Just who do we know that you’d trust with Elliott?”