“That’s grown-up words.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“Claire is responsible for Claire’s feelings.”
“Am I responsible for mine?”
He almost laughed.
“Some of them.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
They lay quietly.
Then she asked:
“Are you going to marry someone else?”
Ethan’s chest tightened.
“I’m still married to Claire.”
“But if you’re not.”
He looked at his daughter.
“Why?”
“Because maybe I’m bad at stepmoms.”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Daddy.”
“You are not bad at stepmoms.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that is not a job children have.”
She looked confused.
“What?”
“You don’t have to be good at making adults fit into our family.”
Sophie thought.
“Then who does?”
“The adults.”
“That’s you.”
“Yes.”
“So you were bad.”
Ethan stared.
Then started laughing.
Quietly.
Painfully.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“I think I was.”
Sophie seemed satisfied.
“Okay.”
Then rolled over and fell asleep.
Children could be mercilessly efficient with accountability.
Ethan remained awake.
At six, he went downstairs.
Margaret was already in the kitchen making coffee.
His mother had flown in from Florida wearing the same linen suit she left a charity lunch in.
At sixty-eight she remained elegant, sharp, and intolerant of excuses.
She looked at him.
“How bad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try again.”
He told her.
Closet.
Documents.
Messages.
Claire’s resentment.
Sophie’s fear.
Margaret said nothing until he finished.
Then:
“I liked Claire.”
Ethan looked up.
“What?”
“I liked her.”
“Okay.”
“That matters.”
“Why?”
“Because in six months you’ll try to comfort yourself by deciding she was obviously terrible from the beginning.”
Ethan stared.
Margaret continued.
“She wasn’t.”
“No.”
“She was wonderful with Sophie at first.”
“Yes.”
“She was patient with your grief.”
“Yes.”
“She loved you.”
Ethan looked away.
“I think so.”
“Good.”
His mother sipped coffee.
“Do not rewrite the past because you cannot tolerate complexity.”
Ethan almost smiled.
“You flew here to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Clearly.”
Margaret leaned forward.
“The useful question is not whether Claire is secretly evil.”
“What is?”
“When did love become entitlement?”
Ethan said nothing.
Margaret continued.
“When did she decide marrying you gave her authority to control what parts of Rachel remained?”
His jaw tightened.
“And when did you stop paying enough attention to notice?”
There it was.
He looked toward the stairs.
“I travel too much.”
“Yes.”
“I trusted her.”
“Yes.”
“I should have—”
“No.”
Margaret cut him off.
“Do not turn accountability into self-indulgence.”
Ethan stared.
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘I’m a terrible father’ is emotionally dramatic and practically useless.”
He looked down.
“Then what?”