My son called me from an airport at 9:14 on a Sunday morning.
I know the exact time because I was standing at my kitchen counter in Wilmington, waiting for the toaster, and I looked at the clock on the stove when the phone rang. I remember thinking, Cullen never calls this early.
“Mom! Big news.”
There was noise behind him. Rolling suitcases. A woman’s voice on a loudspeaker saying something about Gate 14.
“Blythe and I got married yesterday.”
The toast popped up.
I didn’t touch it.
“You…
