Most days, when I got home from work, I rushed in the front door and basically searched the house until I found all the kids and my wife, hugged all of them and began the task of telling each other about our days. Today was different. I stood outside with my hand on the knob, just staring at my feet. I noticed a huge stain covering WEL so the mat just said COME. How long had that stain been there? What the hell was it? Why had I not noticed it until now? It was clearly an old stain, dark, blackened to the point that the letters weren’t simply obscured, they were now part of the damn stain. Did my wife spill her coffee? Did one of the kids track something ungodly onto it? Had a homeless person fallen asleep on my front porch and bled out on my welcome mat? I laughed at the thought. Laruen would think that was funny.

I stood there for a good five minutes. I stared at the blackened ovoid stain on my COME mat and wondered what else I hadn’t noticed and for how long I hadn’t noticed it. What things had happened in my life that I was oblivious to? Were my kids keeping secrets from me? Did one of them ruin the mat and they just didn’t say anything, hoping that I’d pay just as much attention I as apparently already had? What else was I missing? I turned the knob and pushed open the door. I stood in the foyer as quietly as I could, listening. The girls were upstairs in their room, laughing about something they were watching on television. Lauren was editing at her desk and hadn’t noticed me, she had her earbuds in, probably listening to a podcast. William was probably in his room, making a movie or watching a YouTube video.

I stood there for as long as I could maintain my presence unannounced, just listening. I paid attention to the tones of my daughters’ laughter, the keyboard clicks from my wife’s computer, and the clicketing of my dogs prancing on the hardwoods. Nobody noticed I was home. Nobody knew. How long would it take them to notice? Would they notice if I wasn’t here at all? What would they do if I stopped coming home? Would they still laugh? Would my wife just move on and keep living? Would my son become the man he would be? I just stood there, memorizing as much as I could muster, the smell of my home, the sounds of my progeny, the heat of the summer beating on me from the porch, and the chill of the living room fan blowing on my face.

I pushed shut the front door, and the swollen wood jammed itself in to the frame, and the silence was broken. The dogs barked, and came trapsing to me from the back of the house, distracted from whatever they were pilfering seconds before. My girls plodded down the hallway, screaming “daddy” and my wife turned to smile at me from her desk at the top of the staircase.

“Hey babe, how was your day?” She pulled her earbuds out and swiveled her chair toward me. She was so beautiful. Her long blond hair haloed by the setting sunlight pouring through the upstairs window. My girls poked their heads through the railing and smiled down at me. They fought to get the details of the day reported, one rambling melody of Chick-Fil-A for lunch, cartoons on television, chalk drawing on the porch, and hide and seek with the babysitter. William stuck his head out his door and over the railing, “What’s up?” he said.

I’ve rehearsed this scene dozens, probably hundreds of times since we moved into this house. Most days, I’d be dropping my briefcase by the buffet, dumping my keys and wallet in the ceramic bowl, and kicking my shoes off by the coat rack. Today, I just stood there, stared alternately into all of their faces, and noticed all of the things I’d never paid attention to before.

Sophia makes funny faces while when she’s not talking. Kate stands with one foot on the floor and the other in tiptoe stance and her head is always cocked to one side. William never wears a shirt…he’s almost always naked from the waste up, but that I’ve noticed. I hadn’t noticed how much fitter he’d grown in the past few months. He’s been busting his ass. And Lauren, when she’s not focused on her computer, has the most calming spirit, and the way she looks at me when I talk to the kids is bliss.

“The usual, I was super busy. How are you guys? Anything exciting today?” I asked the question, but I didn’t hear the answer. I was too busy stuck in my head. I faked a smile and trudged up the steps. I teased at the girls through the railing, tickle fingers splayed like sideways spiders. I gave William a fist bump and I knelt down at Lauren’s feet and wrapped my arms around her waist, buried my head in her lap, and exhaled myself into her grasp. She rubbed my back and shoulders. I squeezed her tighter. The girls made a mommy-daddy sandwich, encircling use in a hug group hug. William made a smartass joke and every body giggled.

I wanted to soak it up, get as much as I could get, for as long as I could get it. I was the biscuit sopping up the very last drop of gravy on the plate. Sophia laid against my back and hugged me about my waist. Kate wedged her face between my cheek and her momma’s belly, butterfly kissing my eyelashes with hers. Lauren spread her arms out and grabbed all three of us in a big momma bearhug.

How do I say it? How do I tell them? I don’t want to do it. I don’t. I want to stay in this moment, forever, but not like this. I want it to be different. I don’t want them to know. How do I make my girls understand? How do I promise them anything, knowing what I know? Will they hate me? Their lives, all of them, are about to change. I know everything, and right now, they know nothing. They’re happy. Our family is whole and everything is beautiful. How do I do it?

I don’t.

I keep it inside.

I say nothing.

I faked my way through dinner. We talked about our days, and we made plans for the weekend. Sophia told us about the science experiment they did in school and Kate had to tell us about the girl that got sick and puked on the playground. William shared his newest idea for a short film he wanted to make on his day off Sunday. Lauren and I played footsie under the table the entire meal. I must have told her ten times how much I love and appreciate her, to the point that she couldn’t be expected not to suspect something was wrong. I cleaned the dishes and the kitchen while she bathed the girls. William watched TV from the sectional. We fed the dogs and put the girls to bed. I showered and crawled into bed. We watched stand up comedy for an hour and then chit chatted about going to the beach and out to eat on Saturday.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too, babe. But are you every going to tell me what’s going on? I can tell something is bothering you.”

She rolled on her side and grabbed my hand in hers. I stared at the ceiling. She pumped my hand three times, our silent code for I. Love. You. I pumped hers back four times. I. Love. You. Too.

“I just had a long day, babe. Lots of drama. Sick patients, dying patients, just a lot to take in.’ I rolled over and snuggled into her chest. ‘Some days it’s really hard to break bad news.”

She kissed my forehead. She stoked the back of my neck and rubbed my shoulder, tracing circles on my back with the tips of her fingers. I pressed into her, because I didn’t want her to see my tears, or feel my sobbing. I didn’t want her to know, not yet. I couldn’t break it too her, not now. I wanted to remember this moment, this evening, this end of the day, when our little family was whole, happy and perfect.

“I love you so much,” I said.

“I love you too, babe.”

I fell asleep in her arms. I could not bring myself to tell her anything. Some days it’s really hard to break bad news.