Marcus, in his apartment, learned the particular loneliness of a man who had been wronged and was still somehow implicated. Friends told him to leave. Jordan told him to wait. His mother in Atlanta told him to pray and also to get the locks changed at the house, which Mei had already done. At night he replayed the scene: Nora in the shirt to her ankles, sleeves past her hands, bright brown eyes shining with pride; Mei in the doorway in dusty-rose; his own voice asking When was he in our bedroom? as if the chronology could hurt less than the fact.
He went to Nora's parent-teacher conference alone the first time, then with Mei the second, sitting in child-sized chairs that made his tall athletic frame look absurd and tender at once. The teacher praised Nora's reading and her kindness and her tendency to organize other children's cubbies. Marcus and Mei exchanged a glance that said, without words, She gets that from both of us. For a moment they were simply parents again. Then they walked to separate cars in the school parking lot, and the moment closed.
Summer came. Nora turned seven at a park picnic where Marcus grilled and Mei arranged fruit in patterns and the guests were carefully chosen — no office friends, no Daniel-shaped absences, only family and two neighbors who knew how to mind their business. Nora wore a crown made of construction paper. She asked for a professional cake, which turned out to mean a cake with a necktie drawn in frosting. Marcus's stomach turned. Mei's face went carefully blank. They served the cake anyway, because a child's joke should not have to carry an adult's history, and because refusing would have required an explanation neither of them was ready to give in a public park.
That night, after Nora fell asleep in Marcus's apartment with frosting still faintly at the corner of her mouth, Mei texted him: I'm sorry about the cake. I didn't think.
Marcus texted back: I know. Me neither. She's allowed to be funny.
Then, a minute later: I'm still angry. But I'm glad you came today.
Mei stared at the message until the screen dimmed. Glad was not forgiveness. Glad was a window cracked open in a room that had been sealed.