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Ann-Marie sighs. "Mom. How often has Dad called since-well, since I can
remember? He got the job in Boston when I was eight. He called once a week for
a couple years, but you know as well as I do that he calls maybe on our birthdays
now. He's not going to call you, Mom. He's never going to call you. It's been ten
years. Stop waiting up at night like he's going to call you at midnight on a random
Thursday. It's never going to happen, because he left you, because he left all of us.
There's no point."

Julia stares at her daughter, and her daughter stares back. There are tears
streaking mascara down Ann-Marie's cheeks, blood vessels streaking red through
the whites of her eyes. Julia does not move. Julia does not say a word.

Ann-Marie sighs, rubs the back of her hand across her saltwater-streaked cheek.
"You should just go to bed, Mom. We should both just go to bed."

"Yes," says Julia, and she does not move.
Ann-Marie looks at her for a long moment, but in the end she shakes her head,
and disappears up the stairs. Julia stares at the telephone, sitting silent on the
table, and settles back into the chair.