LATER
I don’t hear my husband get up but I hear when the kids do. The television displaces sound as it slams on with a whoosh. I bury my head in the pillows, burrow down the cocoon-tunnel of the winter duvet I put on the bed yesterday. Its warmth and thickness is not enough to keep out the jangling disharmony from the television set. “Turn it down,” I croak. Anders hears me and admonishes the children: shut mama’s door before you turn on the tv! Moments later, the door snicks to, a creaking slam, then not exactly silence, but quiet enough....