She put her in her yellow jammies, tucked her in her crib, blew her a kiss and turned out the light. Leaving her baby’s bedroom door open just a crack, she followed the flickering, blueish glow that reflected off the walls and floor of the hallway in her otherwise darkened home. She often found him sitting in the Den late at night, at his desk, and always in front of his laptop. This night was no different.
“You writing again?” she asked.
“I hope so,” he said.
She hugged him, kissed his cheek and said, “I’m going to bed”.
“I can’t write without you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he answered.
She left closing the door behind her, leaving it open just a crack and followed the now faded, familiar flicker that reflected off the barren bedroom walls.
When finally he came to her, he found her sleeping. Quietly turning out the light, closing the door, leaving it open just a crack, he rolled his wheelchair next to her and slept alongside the bed.