Written plainly

Going to try to write this without making it sophisticated, because I have noticed that when I make a thing sophisticated in here it stops being available to me afterwards. The elegant version goes in a drawer with the ninety-second version. So, plainly: I am afraid that we will have a child, and there will be a bad year, and he will decide on his own how much of it I need to know, and I will find out from a letter. That is it. That is the whole fear. It took four years, a client's sentence, a supervisor's word, a drawer, and about fifteen thousand words in here to arrive at three lines. It is not a fear that he will fail. He does not fail, that is almost the problem — he absorbs, and he is very good at absorbing, and absorbing is a thing you do alone by definition. And a child is the condition under which being told late stops being a thing between two adults and becomes a thing about a third person who cannot hold any of it. I am going to show him this entry. Not read it out. Show him, on the actual screen, because I will soften it if it goes through my mouth.

Something like "I think I just need us to be good at communicating about money before we do this." Which is true, and is also a sentence with no letter in it, no Feldman year in it, and nothing he would have to answer.