She opened the door, looking very frantic and stressed, disorderly.
She walked in, looking very stoic and poised, put together.
It was a change for both of them, and an unwelcome one. They both thought so.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes you can.”
“No, Bree, I can’t. It’s been far too long, they’re all far too young and by God I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“Oh don’t be silly, Lynette. I’ll be fine. I have Phyllis.” Bree’s voice rose to her normal frequency of monotone and she added her trademark smile.
They both knew she was mocking herself.
Looks were exchanged. Looks of feigned innocence and real accusation, of love and jealousy, of sorrow and sympathy. Of mutual concern.
Neither wanted to ask because both knew the answer. Of course they would make it through, neither had a choice.
Both wanted and needed to cry. About different things for the same reasons, about the same things for different reasons.
She wanted him back; she wanted him back for her.
She didn’t want to leave; she wanted her to stay and had no reason but selfishness.
She caught her hand, holding it tightly as if she never wanted to let go. She didn’t.
“We’ll make it work.” It came out hushed, as if the walls would tell.
“We always do.” The whisper was returned.
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