Sipping coffee while I stand at my kitchen sink, I look out at the backyard and see the first hints of orange and red in the trees there. No more ripe tomatoes in the garden. Fall might finally be here.

I’m not spying. I can stand at my own window and enjoy a cup of coffee, looking at my own property. I am absolutely not trying to catch a glimpse of Beth leaving the carriage house.

Nevertheless, I see Christian come out the door, alone. He first takes some long boxes from the back of his SUV, making several trips. I can’t read the labels on them from this distance, but when one tilts in my direction I can see what looks like a picture of plank flooring. The next time he comes out, he’s got one of the long rolls of carpet he tore out before. He goes back inside, returns with the other one, struggling and nearly falling as he shoves it into the back of his SUV. This time, he drives away. I watch a few minutes more, but there’s no sign of Beth.

I used to make a big breakfast for Eli every morning before school. He’d eat while I’d read a chapter from a book we both picked out. He stopped eating breakfast when he started high school, so I know the eggs I’m beating now will be scrambled, cooked, and returned to the fridge without being eaten, but I need something to do with my hands so I don’t break something worse than a couple of eggs.

The clock ticks through another few minutes. Eli should be downstairs by now, filling his insulated cup with coffee, at least, if he won’t eat an actual meal. I call upstairs, but he doesn’t answer. I don’t think he slept through his alarm, but I head up anyway to make sure he’s on time.

“Eli!” I knock on his door. He doesn’t answer. I knock again, this time rattling the knob. When he still doesn’t answer, I start to turn it.

The door is yanked out of my grip as he flings it open. “What?”

He’s high.

I stare at him and take a step back into the hallway. “You’re going to be late for school.”

We stare at each other. I’ve never spoken to my son about my troubles with drugs. Never asked if he remembers the days when Mama napped a lot while he watched cartoons for hours on end.

While I study his face, Eli shrugs. “I’m almost ready.”

I can’t be positive he’s using. He’s not slurring or unsteady on his feet; his eyes aren’t red. His pupils seem fine.

I look into his room, but of course there’s no convenient evidence laid out for me to see. No prescription bottles, no envelopes bulging with pills. I don’t smell weed.

Still, I know. I feel it. How many times did I greet my own mother in the morning before leaving for school with the same expression on my face, the one that said I’m kinda fucked up right now, but I hope you don’t notice? She’d never confronted me, never once, and I’d always convinced myself she never knew.