It is impossible to concentrate. When you know your child is on the operating table, anaesthetised, tube down her throat, and soon to have seven teeth hacked and yanked from her mouth, how can you? You look at your watch again. Wonder which tooth he’s up to, the oral surgeon who casually told you in his rooms about the nerve that runs close to the extraction site, the one that controls taste and sensation in the lips. You feel guilty that you didn’t take her to the hospital yourself. Even though her father was happy to take time off and she was happy either way. You time-travel to two hours ago and watch them drive off, waving. Feel the gut-wrench of staying behind. Everything is ready for when they return. You’ve filled the fridge with mush. You’ve googled mushroom soup recipes and watched a how-to video. You’ve diced the ingredients and cooked dinner for yourself and the hollow legged man-child. You’ve got the ice pack cooling in the freezer. This could be a time when you could catch...
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