Honeyed Habit
My husband can't find his way anywhere. He can't read a map, and turn-by-turn directions only confuse him more. He got lost on our wedding day and turned up so late the ceremony had to be pushed back three days.
He got lost on our anniversary while a table of food I'd cooked went cold.
Eight months pregnant, I fell in the bathroom and called him for help. He sounded frantic on the phone, and then he got lost on the road home, the one he'd driven for five years. By the time he reached the hospital, our son had already been taken to the funeral home and cremated.
I couldn't climb out of it, and everyone around me took his side.
"That thick head of his can't hold a road. He wasn't late on purpose. Don't start a fight over it. You'll have another baby."
I nodded, numb.
Then, on the way to my son's funeral, I found out my husband had sent the driver away and taken a long detour to his assistant's house without a single wrong turn.
"Grace, the service won't start for a while. I'll run Paige to the airport first. She's got to get back home."
Before I could say no, we were already at her door.
His assistant slid into the front passenger seat like it belonged to her, and every word out of her mouth landed somewhere tender.
"See how well I've trained you? You forget the way to my place and I'll pull your pants down and deal with you."
It was only when she noticed me in the back seat that she stuck out her tongue, embarrassed.
"Sorry, Ms. Ellison. I was joking."
I swallowed it and said nothing. And after Owen dropped her off, he lost the route to the cemetery again, and my son's service started half an hour late.
Holding that small urn against me, I stopped hoping.
So there was someone he could make an exception for. It just wasn't me, and it wasn't our son.