I laughed because it was true. Harold had kept Mike’s beat-up mug from their college road trip and used it every single morning. Mia would toddle over and reach for it as if it were a piece of her dad.
“That mug’s hers whenever she wants it,” he added, softer.
I remembered thinking, goodness, we’re lucky. And then I remembered thinking, are we, though?
Mia squirmed in my arms as we walked up the drive to Harold’s house. She was in a small yellow dress with grass stains I hadn’t been able to scrub out.
“Mommy, can I swim?”
“Not tonight, baby. Just visiting.”
“I want Daddy.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
Harold’s house glowed. String lights across the patio, women in silk dresses, men in linen suits, a bar set up by the deep end. I felt like a smudge in the corner of a magazine spread.
Then I saw Harold across the pool, drink in hand, watching us come through the gate.
He smiled. But it wasn’t quite the easy smile I’d gotten used to. It was warmer and heavier, and there was something else I didn’t have a word for, yet.
