I stepped in before either of them could retreat.
“The therapists celebrate everything,” I said. “They applauded when I put on my own shoe after shoulder surgery.”
Noah looked at me.
“You had surgery?”
“Years ago.”
“Did I know?”
“You drove me home and refused to let me carry groceries for a month.”
“Were you difficult?”
“Constantly.”
That faint almost-smile returned.
Leah gave me a grateful look.
She turned her phone toward Noah. “Do you want to see the girls?”
His expression changed.
“Yeah.”
The first photograph showed Emma on a stage in a silver costume, one arm raised dramatically beneath a paper moon.
Noah studied the image.
“That’s Emma?”
“She started dance last year.”
“She’s tall.”
“She complains about it every day.”
His fingertip touched the screen.
The second photograph showed Clara grinning through a missing front tooth while holding a fish nearly as long as her arm.
“Clara?” he asked.
Leah nodded.
“No. She was a baby.”
“She’s seven.”
Noah looked at me as if I had done something.
“She’s seven?”
“Yes.”
His breathing quickened.
