In the garage he found a box of old photographs. Howard graduation. Simone at twenty-two, radiant, arm around a young man Aaron did not recognize for three full seconds — and then did. Isaiah, younger, smiling, his hand at Simone's waist with the casual possession of a man who had not yet become a secret. Aaron sat on an overturned bucket and held the photograph until the cold from the concrete floor climbed his spine. He did not destroy it. He put it back in the box and labeled the box, in his own handwriting, PAST, as if labels could govern memory.
March marked five months since the clipboard.
Lily asked, at breakfast, why Daddy slept in the other room still.
Aaron looked at Simone. Simone looked at Aaron. The kitchen held its breath.
Aaron said, "Mommy and Daddy are working on some grown-up problems. It doesn't mean we love you less. It doesn't mean the other room is forever. It means we are trying to be honest, and honesty sometimes needs space."
Lily considered this with the gravity of seven. "Is it about the man who picked me up that time."
Simone's fork clicked against her plate.
Aaron kept his voice level. "Why do you ask that."