He comes home for lunch at 11:05, shoulders stooped from the weight of Language Arts and Algebra I. Last night's pizza is pulled from the oven and set on the table.
“When are you going to buy milk?” he asks, instead of saying thank you.
This is how he lets me know he needs something. Not, we're out of milk or I drank the last of it this morning, but when. When will I replace the milk I didn't know was out, the shoes I didn't know were outgrown. When will he get his license, a car, a haircut.