Chapter 10: The Kitchen Table

My daughter showed me the picture on her phone at the kitchen table that night.

"Dad asked for my school photo," she said. "For his lock screen. He said he missed me at the lot."

I looked at it, a pink-cheeked girl with two missing teeth in a sixth-grade smile, and my stomach unclenched a little.

It was a father wanting a photograph of his daughter.

I could not tell what else it was.

"That's nice of him," I said.

"He's weird about it, though," she said. "He didn't say hi to me at the school. He just took the picture."

"People get weird about things," I said.

"Mom," she said.

My son had come in from practice and dropped into the chair across from her, still damp from the shower.

He had a bowl of cereal at nine at night, and he was frowning at it.

"You were really cool tonight," he said.

I did not know what to do with my face.

"At the meeting," he said. "Mrs. Albrecht said you were the bravest person in the room."

"Mrs. Albrecht brought a cushion," I said. "She's the bravest person I know."

My daughter giggled.

My son put his spoon down.

"Mom, are you leaving Dad?"

The kitchen was quiet.

I sat down between them with my hands flat on the table.

In the first life, I had never been asked that question, because no one had told me I was allowed to answer.

"I don't know yet," I said. "That's the truth. I'm not going to tell you a story."

"I'm not going to put anything on you, either," I said.

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