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“I like preparation. Different thing.”

“Not tonight.”

He smiled a little, and when I leaned against him, his arm came around my shoulders as he pulled me in, and I settled there with my cheek against his sweatshirt, the cassette in my lap, and our breathing gradually slowing together until the clock in the kitchen ticked past one.

The next morning, I called Claire before breakfast.

She answered on the fourth ring, sounding suspicious because my daughter believed unexpected morning calls meant someone had either died, fallen, or needed help with a computer.

“Mom? Is something wrong?”

“No,” I said, watching Paul stand by the coffee maker in glasses and pajama pants, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

“I wanted to hear your voice.”

There was a pause long enough for me to imagine her sitting up in bed, hair tangled, phone pressed to her ear, suspicion sharpening by the second.

“It’s seven-fifteen on a Saturday,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you being weird?”

“I love you.”

This pause was different. Softer.

“I love you too,” she said. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“Mom.”

“A little.”

She exhaled, and I could practically see the crease forming between her eyebrows. “Do you want me to come over?”

“Yes.”

Paul looked up.

That was new. I usually said no first. No, don’t bother. No, I’m fine. No, I don’t want to interrupt your plans, as if motherhood hadn’t been years of interruption served hot.

“Okay,” Claire said carefully. “I’ll come.”

“Bring your brother.”

“Ben is useless before noon.”

“Bring him anyway.”

By six that evening, both of my children were in my kitchen, and the house had become wonderfully loud. Claire arrived first in jeans, boots, and a gray sweater, carrying grocery bags because she’d decided we needed “real food” and apparently didn’t trust my ability to produce dinner after what she was now calling “the morning incident.”

Her brown hair fell over one shoulder, and when she found Paul using the small cutting board for onions, the crease appeared between her eyebrows so clearly that my breath caught.

“Dad,” she said, “that’s the fruit board.”

Paul looked down at the board. “It’s a board.”