But something’s wrong. More specifically, something’s wet.
I pull up my legs, and then the bedsheet. “It’s all wet,” I say.
“What?” asks my husband.
“The sheet,” I say. “It’s all wet.”
“No it’s not,” says my husband, without seeing or touching the sheet. Defensively hopeful.
“Yes, it is,” I say. I hold the big wet area to my nose. “It’s our older child. He peed here last night,” I inform. Then I offer the sheet to husband’s nose.
He whiffs. “That’s not him,” husband says. His voice grows a little louder. “That was the cat,” he adds disgustedly.
I disagree. “That’s not the cat. Cat pee is strong and unbearable. Smell again.”
Husband complies, then says nothing. I smell the sheet again too. A pause lifts into the air.
It’s me who observes: “This is kind of a depressing conversation, isn’t it?”