The brownstone was a wreck. Blocks scattered across the floor. A burp cloth hung from the back of a chair. Someone had stuck a dinosaur sticker to the baseboard. A bottle warmer hummed on the counter. The dishwasher needed unloading. The laundry room contained a situation we had both agreed not to examine until morning.
It was perfect.
“Do you regret it?” Alexander asked.
“No.”
“Not even the timing?”
“No.”
“Your sister?”
I leaned my head against the cabinet behind me.
“That part hurts.”
“She seemed shocked.”
“She believed the story she was given.”
“Do you want to let her in?”
I considered that.
“I don’t know yet.”
Alexander nodded.
He never rushed me toward forgiveness. That was one of the ways he loved me best.
“My father will call,” I said.
“Will you answer?”
“Maybe.”
“Your mother?”
“She’ll call too. I won’t answer.”
