Fisher comes down on Sunday morning, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with a soccer team name on it.
I’m busy at the kitchen table, paying bills and figuring out how I’ll manage once the babies arrive. We’ll need childcare since I want to—and have to—continue working.
“Good morning,” he says, grabbing a to-go coffee cup and filling it. “Thanks for making coffee. I should’ve been up an hour ago.” He shifts over to the pantry and grabs a protein bar.
“I would’ve woken you had I known.”
Ever since Dori and Ethel brought my stuff over, Fisher has been more distant, but respectful. We coexist like roommates. I’m not sure if I’ve done something to offend him or what. But I’m worried that him deciding to have me move in was a knee-jerk reaction he’s regretting at this point.
“It’s my fault
