Clementine Posey

For whatever reason, George wakes up very early every single morning, no matter how late he goes to sleep. So we've developed this habit of having very early Sunday morning conversations, before he goes to spend the rest of his day with his mom. Actually, he does most of the talking, I just sleepily "mhmmmm." We talk for maybe twenty or thirty minutes before he tells me to go back to sleep and I, before he can even hang up, happily complies. But this time, instead of ending the conversation with goodbye, or "call you later," he said, "I love you," and hung up, and suddenly I was wide awake.

When he called later in the evening, it was after hours of my failed attempts to study, after an hour conversation with my mom about the diminishing conditions at home, and after eight wasted dollars on disgusting dog food they call sesame chicken here. I was mentally drained, emotionally stressed and bitterly hungry, and I cried. And cried. And he listened, and consoled, and promised he'd be there in any way he could.

And it took what seemed like forever before I realized what an asshole I am, realized that this was his first time seeing his mom since she got the news about a more urgent surgery and that I hadn't even asked about her or the family before I jumped into my pool of pity. I apologized over and over, he told me about it, that she and everyone else was in good spirits, but that deep down he was actually really worried, felt like he needed to do more, but doesn't know what to do. I listened, consoled, and promised I'd be there in every way I could. Eventually we said goodnight and hung up.

Five minutes later I called back to say, "I love you too."

To be continued..