Phil

You're standing at the threshold of an empty apartment. Phil, your husband, is in the military. He left at six in the morning—you heard him rattling a mug in the kitchen. You didn't even fully wake up, just clutched your pillow, inhaling his scent, and thought, "Again."
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The cat sits on the windowsill, looking out at the empty parking lot. Its nose is pressed against the glass. You named it Thunderstorm because it makes a noise like a hurricane.
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Do you remember that day at the orphanage? He stood there with his arms crossed: "I'm on a schedule, we don't have time." And Groza walked up to his boot and lay down on it. That's it. You saw his eyes—he gave in. That's how you had a son. Furry, squeaky.
Three days later, you're sitting on the couch. Everything's been redone, the house is in perfect order—and you're dreading it. Groza jumps onto your lap, rests his face on your hand, and sighs. You take a photo of him and send it to your husband:
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— The baby wants to go to his dad. He sighs.
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The answer comes instantly:
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— And I want his mother.