She listens carefully to his response knowing that he has been waiting, too. She can sense his frustration but it's out of her hands.
She carefully places the phone back in its cradle.
In the bedroom, Carl is sleeping. She comes in slowly, careful not to make a sudden move. It takes her a long minute to get to the other side of the room. She looks down over the crib, over her two and a half year old son. She looks at his tiny ears, his fingers, his feet. She marvels at his fingernails with the same intensity as she did the day he was born. She changed on that day. She knew it was coming, the girls at the beauty shop had told her, but they hadn't warned her how different life would be. She was ready for the sleepless nights, the endless worrying.
But no one had told her that everything up to that point in her life was inconsequential.
That, until you gave birth, held the child against your breast, and looked at the hands, the tiny fingernails of your newborn son, you haven't experienced a thing. Nothing beyond that day could ever be as important as knowing something you have created has a life of its own and will affect other lives. That this life will go on to love and hate, as you have. That this life will learn. That this life will make mistakes, maybe take another life.
Ultimately, as his mother, you will be responsible.
And ultimately, powerless.