Marcus and I agreed to share parenting equally, splitting our child in half like a Georgia watermelon. We flipped a coin for the first month: three out of five. I won. Tonight, my month alone with Lee is over; Marcus is scheduled to pick him up at seven.
Lee is tall for twelve, but as he opens the door to check the driveway again, he appears younger, and more vulnerable. He resembles his father, which bothers me at times though it’s a useless thing to worry about. Marcus is good-looking, or perhaps even handsome. I don’t know anymore. The two of them are freckled and lanky; even their noses are thin. Lee’s red-blond hair has grown longish, curling slightly at his neck. As he leans against the door frame, I’m reminded of how, as a toddler, he would climb onto the couch and stand at our picture window, waiting for Marcus to return home from work.
