So I placed my hand over his.
“I understand.”
His eyes filled, but no tears fell.
“He looked at us like we were strangers.”
I brushed a curl from his forehead.
“That’s because he is one.”
Jonah leaned against me then, and I held him while Christmas music played faintly from another room, absurdly cheerful and distant.
Across the table, Marianne watched us with red-rimmed eyes.
Later, when the boys were curled up in a guest room beneath too many quilts, she found me in the library.
The fire had burned low. The house smelled of pine, smoke, and sugar.
She closed the door behind her.
“I need to ask you something,” she said.
I stood near the window, watching snow bury the long driveway.
“All right.”
“Why tonight?”
I expected accusation.
Instead, I heard grief.
I turned.
Marianne stood with her arms folded tightly, as if holding herself together by force.
