Eighty-Eight

Isobelle

“Bye, Mom, we promise to call you every single day,” Faith's words came out as a rough sob as she flung her arms around my neck.

I was fighting back the tears, holding back the floodgates as best as I could while my four husbands stood along our front porch with their heads bowed, their eyes trained on the weathered decking.

It was uncomfortably hot. Whether we were sitting inside or outside, it made no difference at all. Summer was upon us, the birds had been fucking tweeting since the butt-crack of dawn, sweat was dripping down me like the falls of Forest Hills, making my clothes stick to my skin as if it molded them to my body. This was supposed to be one of those days when we could lounge around on deck chairs in the back garden, sipping on cold beers or a glass of prosecco. Instead, we were standing on the front porch, bowing our heads in mourning as if somebody had just died.

“You better call me,” I warned, bouncing my watery gaze at each of my daughters, “or else I'll