It was last April, I think, when JB had turned in his notice at Microsoft and had maybe two weeks before starting the new job in Eugene. We got in a habit of dropping Dylan off at preschool in the morning, then heading down the road to a nearby diner for breakfast. You know the kind of place: white ceramic coffee cups, thin utensils, tiny sweating plastic cups of ice water. We’d sit and order gigantic meals, cheesy omelets and ham-adorned scrambled eggs. “This is what life could be like if we were retired,” JB said once. It’s true the diner was always busy, always filled with older people. “We’d get so fat,” I replied, but as I said it I was comfortably troweling cold butter onto hot rye toast. The melting spread of it, salty and sweet under a layer of strawberry jam dug from a foil-topped packet. All around us, the bustle of movement and voices and opening and closing doors.