They did not reconcile quickly. They did not divorce quickly either. They lived in the long middle where love and trust no longer traveled together, where co-parenting became a second marriage of logistics, where Nora began to notice that Daddy's apartment had fewer photographs and Mommy's house had quieter evenings.
One night Nora asked Mei, while brushing her teeth, "Was the shirt man a friend?"
Mei sat on the bathroom tile with her dusty-rose top replaced by an old college sweatshirt and told the closest version of truth a six-year-old could hold. "Mommy made a bad choice with a person from work. It hurt Daddy's feelings very much. It was not your fault. The shirt was not a costume. It was a mistake Mommy should have cleaned up."
Nora spat foam into the sink. "Daddy said I looked professional."
"You did," Mei said. "You always do when you try."
Nora rinsed. "Can I still wear Daddy's shirts sometimes? The real ones."
"Yes," Mei said. "The real ones."
In the sixth month, Marcus came to the house to pick up Nora for the weekend and found Mei in the kitchen cooking the dumplings they had eaten on their first date — pork and chives, pan-fried, the edges lacquered the way his mother-in-law had taught her. The smell undid something in his chest. Mei looked up, warm fair skin flushed from the stove, brown eyes cautious.