Annie visits twice a week now.

  I’ve noticed Sebastian is lighter on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On the other days he’s somewhere else even when he’s home. I file this away with everything else I don’t open.

  I repainted the corner of Elise’s room two days ago. I’d been meaning to for months. Soft yellow because Elise said once that yellow was her happiest color. I wrote it down on a sticky note when she said it. I still have the note.

  I mentioned it to Sebastian in passing.

  He nodded. Moved on.

  Three days later I’m stirring tea in the kitchen when I hear him in the other room, his voice low and warm in a way it hasn’t been with me in months.

  “What color do you think would brighten up a kid’s room?”

  The spoon goes around and around.

  He’s asking her. I already told him. I already did it.

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  I put the spoon down. I drink my tea.

  A week after that, Elise is on the living room floor with her blocks. I’m cutting carrots at the counter.

  “Papa says your cooking is too plain,” she says. She doesn’t look up.

  The knife stops.

  He said that out loud. To someone. And she heard it and brought it back here without knowing what she was carrying.

  I start cutting again. I make the carrots very even. I place them in the pot.

  “Thanks for telling me,” I say. My voice is fine. I’m good at fine.

  Elise looks up, satisfied, and goes back to her blocks.

  That weekend I run into a neighbor at the grocery store. She asks how things are. I say fine, really. She gives me a look, kind, not pushing. We talk about her week. We part warmly.

  I grip the wheel the whole drive home.

  Not hard. Just the grip of someone holding themselves together with whatever’s available.

  I sit in the parked car for a moment before going inside.

  Get up. Go in. Make dinner.

  I go in.

  That night the lights are off and I try to talk. Something small, easy. I’m halfway through a story about something Elise did that day when I notice Sebastian’s breathing has changed. Slower. Deeper.

  He’s not asleep. We both know that.

  I stop talking.

  When did I stop crying? I can’t find the edge of when that stopped.

  I lie there and try to find it. Somewhere in the middle of ordinary life, without any announcement, the tears just stopped coming. No final cry. No last night. They were just gone one day.

  I stare at the ceiling until the ceiling is just a ceiling.

  I don’t sleep for a long time.