“There’s the taxi, now.”
Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing.
“I’m coming home, Mama.” There was a click and the phone went silent. Moving from the bed with tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in my sixteen-year-old daughter’s room. The dark silence hung thick. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “We have to learn to listen,” I said.
He pulled me around to face him. “We’ll learn. You’ll see.”
Then he took me into his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder. I let him hold me for several moments, then I pulled back and stared back at the bed. He studied me for a second, then asked, “Do you think she’ll ever know she dialed the wrong number?”
I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. “Maybe it wasn’t such a wrong number.”
“Mom, Dad, what are you doing?” The muffled young voice came from under the covers. I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness.
“We’re practicing,” I answered.
“Practicing what?” she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, her eyes already closed in slumber.
“Listening,” I whispered, and brushed a hand over her cheek.
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