A few days later, I had six tickets to the progressive dinner in my hand. When Joe picked me up in the limo to take me home, I had him swing by Gray’s restaurant.
Amy was alone in the kitchen, cleaning the floor. When she saw me, she turned her back and leaned on the mop. I hated how her shoulders slumped like she had lost all hope.
“Amy, the progressive dinner is next Friday night,” I said. “It was your idea, and you should be there.”
She didn’t move or answer me. She seemed to be barely breathing.
“I brought tickets for you and your Dad.” I held the tickets over her shoulder so she could see them.
But she wouldn’t take them from me.
Instead, she turned around and looked at me with pain in her eyes. I realized then that she missed me as much as I missed her.
But her expression told
