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Silence: The three of them are sitting in the front room. They never really use the front room, but it is where the front door opens and that is the reason. She had considered dressing up the kids. It crossed her mind, that's all, but it would have been too much. She brought them in here ½ hour early, just in case. Then she got up to get them some fruit juice and some little trucks and dolls to keep them occupied. There was a board game, but she thought twice about the sight of him coming in and seeing the three of them preoccupied, no, excluding him somehow. She sits on one side of the couch that is positioned against the front window, so she can see. Now and again, too frequently really, she pulls aside the translucent white curtains to look, stretching her neck a bit in order to see down the street. Then she looks around the room. She gets up and stands with her back to the front door. This is what he will see when he comes in. The kids seem OK, content. She will be on the sofa when he comes in. She walks to the front hall mirror, checks herself, then returns to the couch, thinking maybe that the three of them should be waiting in the TV room. She decides against it. The two of them had talked about it last night, sitting up in bed with the lights on. Has they really talked though, she wonders. This was new territory, sure, so it was hard to really get into it. And yet a talk, the talk had happened. Little trucks roll over the tan carpet, little dolls are propped up in chairs. There is just no way to tell who the psychiatrist was sending home to her.