“Are you still coming to my winter concert?”
“Front row if they let me.”
“They won’t. Parents sit in rows.”
“Then the best row available.”
That satisfied her.
After we hung up, I sat on my sofa and cried for the first time.
Not because Daniel had left me home.
Not because of the money.
Because an eight-year-old child had immediately wondered whether an adult’s departure was her fault.
I had promised myself I would never let that happen.
At four thirty, Daniel texted.
We’re home. Can you come at six?
I replied.
Yes.
Then, after thinking, I added:
I would prefer that we talk after the children are settled.
Agreed.
At six, I drove back to the house.
My former house.
Their house.
I wasn’t sure what to call it anymore.
Jack opened the door before I rang the bell.
“Grandma!”
He was eleven and had recently begun believing himself too old for enthusiastic affection, but he forgot that rule and hugged me.
Emily appeared behind him holding a paper bag.
“This is yours.”
Inside was a small wooden sea turtle painted blue and green.
“I picked it,” she said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You can put it in your apartment.”
