Nathan was quiet for a moment.
“I’d like to come home,” he said.
“Not tonight.
Not until you’re ready.
But I want you to know that’s what I want.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m not there yet.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m not saying never.”
We stayed on the phone a little longer without saying much.
It wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was the kind of quiet that means something is still there, underneath everything that got broken.
Eventually I said goodnight.
I made tea.
One cup.
Stood at the counter and drank it while the backyard went dark outside the window.
Three weeks later, Nathan came for dinner.
Not to move back in.
Just dinner.
He brought flowers — not roses, which he knew I found too formal, but a bunch of yellow tulips from the market near his office.
He set them on the counter and didn’t make a production of it.
We cooked together.
We talked.
We talked about Claire, who had been to visit twice and who had, apparently, a very strong opinion about Nathan’s taste in music.
We talked about Diane, who had not called either of us since the courthouse and who had, according to Nathan, quietly told the rest of the family only that she had made a mistake and was giving us space.
