She retreated, back into the safe darkness of the bedroom, when he raised his well-shaped head and looked at her.
“What is it this time?”
Helena paused. “I have dreams.”
“You mean we should get out of this dump? Go to Italy?” he sneered.
Helena curled her hands together in front of her. In hindsight, she wished she’d let it go at that. Why not let him think she was dreaming of better things to come? But something about the tone of his voice goaded her to tell the truth.
“I don’t mean those kind of dreams. I mean the kind you have when you’re asleep.”
That got his attention. Jake considered himself an expert on the subconscious. He gave her a speculative look.
Helena’s embarrassment increased as she realized that she’d stopped having conversations with her husband, unless they were to do with the children. Four-year-old Annabelle and eighteen-month-old Maia kept their parents busy, and Helena’s life had become folded into a logistical struggle of the little things in life, getting up in the morning, eating, going out, dropping the girls off at day care, showing up for work, doing work, leaving, collecting the children, dinner, playing with her daughters, and getting them ready for bed.
[To be continued.]