I returned home early, hoping to surprise my seven-year-old son. Instead, Bennett begged me not to enter his bedroom and warned that I would become angry. Then a faint voice came from behind the closed door.
I had been away for four days.
When I first agreed to the business trip, four days did not seem very long.
They would pass quickly. That was what I told myself while packing on Monday morning.
But four days was enough time to miss my son’s bedtime stories.
Enough to miss the way he always requested another glass of water after I had tucked him in.
Enough to feel guilty every time he asked, “When are you coming home, Mom?”
My seven-year-old son, Bennett, had never handled my work trips well. He understood that my job occasionally required travel, but understanding did not make my absence easier.
On the first night, he called from his bed.
“Your aunt Lauren checked it twice,” I assured him.
“Did she check the windows?”
