Because my mother had been up twice that night. Because I had spent the day fighting with insurance. Because one of the kids needed money for a school trip and another needed new glasses.
Because I was so tired that “sleepwalking” felt less frightening than whatever the truth might be. Then it happened again. And again.
Always around two. Always back before dawn. Only the details stopped fitting.
People who sleepwalk don’t drive. They don’t come back with a gas receipt in their pocket. They don’t smell like cold air, coffee, and sweat.
They do not look like they just finished a shift. I noticed all of it. I just kept not confronting it, partly because the house was one ongoing emergency, and partly because I was afraid of what I would hear if I asked the right question at the wrong moment.
The kids noticed pieces, too. One night my second oldest asked, “Dad, are you okay?”
Mark looked up slowly. “Yeah.
Just tired.”
My youngest muttered, “You’re always tired.”
Nobody answered. A few days later I was in the kitchen, doing math with medical bills spread all over the table, when Mark came in and said, “Go to bed.”
I laughed. “And ignore the financial issues?”
He put a hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll figure it out.”
He looked at the bills, then at me. “We’ll figure it out.”
He sounded like a man trying to keep a wall up with his bare hands. A week later, I made a decision.
I told my oldest son, who was home from college for the weekend, “I’m stepping out if your dad leaves again. Stay awake enough to listen for Grandma’s monitor.”
He looked at me carefully. “You think something’s wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come?”
At 2:07 a.m., Mark got up.
Same slow steps. Same quiet exit. This time I counted to 60, slipped out the back, got in my car, and followed him.
My hands were shaking on the wheel. Because by then I knew one thing for sure. This was not sleepwalking.
He drove with purpose. Three towns over. Through an industrial strip I had never had reason to visit.
Then he pulled into a warehouse lot. I sat across the street and stared. Not a motel.
Not a woman’s house. Not a casino. Not a bar.
A warehouse. Loading docks. Bright floodlights.
Delivery trucks.
