His voice was awash in tears while talking to her.
I knew how it would go. He’d end the call, sit in the darkness, maybe pull the cork on the Glenfiddich, pour the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler they’d received as a wedding present. Later he might write lyrics to an angry song about her, again, never to see daylight, as that wasn’t his way.
He didn’t realize I knew, that I hid on the shadowed stairs, barefeet tucked under, listening to his call to my mother, who was chasing glitter-laden cotton candy dreams, while draining us both dry.