On Christmas Eve, my husband didn’t arrive, and when I called him, I heard a woman’s voice saying, “He can’t talk. He’s with his wife, giving birth to their baby.”

Still, I couldn’t help but think about how distracted he’d been lately. At dinner, he’d barely talked. Sometimes, I’d catch him staring at his phone with a look I couldn’t read. I told myself it was just work stress. He’d been swamped at the office for weeks.

“He’ll be here,” I said out loud, more to myself than anyone else.
By 6:30 p.m., I sent him a quick text: “Hey, everything’s ready. Can’t wait to see you. Drive safe!”

No reply.
By 7:00 p.m., I was checking my phone every two minutes. The food was getting cold. Denise would wake up soon, and I didn’t want to spend the evening feeding her alone.

I called him.
No answer.
“Okay,” I muttered. “He’s probably driving. Maybe his phone’s in his pocket.”

I busied myself with reheating the green beans and straightening the already-perfect table. I tried to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. By 7:30 p.m., I’d called three more times. No answer.

“Harold,” I whispered, pacing the kitchen. “Where are you?”