The porch light was on. And there was my son.
Mason was twelve. He was standing on his toes in front of the old Maytag, pushing a wet fitted sheet down into the drum with both hands. He was wearing his school uniform, the navy polo and khaki shorts. The polo had a ketchup stain near the collar that I knew for a fact had been there on Tuesday morning, because I’d pointed it out over FaceTime.
It was Friday.
“Mase?”
He spun around so fast he knocked the detergent bottle off the dryer.
“Dad.” His eyes went to the door behind me, then to the dark yard, then back to me. “You’re not supposed to be back till Sunday.”
“The job wrapped early. Where’s Gloria?”
He didn’t answer. He bent down, picked up the detergent, and set it back exactly where it had been, label facing out.
