On the second night, Teddy comes in to pet the dog, passed out on my feet, and then lingers, staring at us—Gary reading and me scrolling through the news feed on my phone. He is at a particular phase of his age where he won’t voluntarily or spontaneously speak without being prodded to.

“Yes, Teddy?” I say, over the glow of my screen. I have a vague idea of what he’s thinking before he says it.

“I thought you guys couldn’t sleep in the same room because of the snoring.”

Gary puts down his book and I put down my phone. “That’s true,” he says. “But there are extenuating circumstances. We have guests.”

“Yes. We have guests,” I repeat. A mantra, a magic word. Gary and I nod and smile cordially at each other, and then at Teddy—we’re playing the parts of two good-natured adults in a romantic comedy, suffering in the short term—housing People Puppets in our snoring room, which was really our separation room!—to keep our son in private school and to spare him the true meaning of our arrangement. I feel my fake smile start to fade. Even Sandra Bullock couldn’t pull this off.

“Okay, but what about the snoring?”

“It’s not so bad,” I say.

Gary snorts. I turn and elbow him hard enough for his book to slip out of his hands.

“How would you even know? You’re the one sleeping through it.”

“Um, Judy?” He elbows back. I’ve gotten so carried away with my lie all these years that even I forget that I’m the snorer, not him.

“But if it’s not so bad,” Teddy presses, “then why can’t you sleep in the same room when we don’t have guests?”

There it is. The big question. If he were seven, or eight, or nine, that would be the end of it—I’d just say because and follow him down to his room, read him a book, or distract him with talk of a new longboard or whether his next guitar should be a Gibson SG like Pete Townshend, or a Rickenbacker like Paul McCartney, or a Fender Stratocaster like Jimi Hendrix. But I can’t remember the last time he longboarded with friends or played music, or the last time we sat on his bed like that with the little train night-light on, the future paved with birthday and Christmas gifts and lit by the warm glow of a tiny bulb. But it’s different now. I look at Gary for an answer, and when he doesn’t have one either, I just shrug and say: “Maybe we’ll try.”

“Really?” Teddy says, almost breathless with hope. For a second he’s a child again, unselfconscious and unafraid to express himself, to be vulnerable, to reveal what he wants.

Gary sits forward. “Does it bother you that we don’t sleep in the same room, buddy?” It’s the first time we’ve asked him that question, and the first time in a long time that Gary has softened a question with buddy.