"Too late," Mei said.
March brought a scare that had nothing to do with marriage and everything to do with why marriage still mattered. Nora spiked a fever at school. The nurse called Mei first; Mei called Marcus while already driving. They met at pediatric urgent care with the synchronized panic of people who remembered that love's first job was not fidelity theater but keeping a child breathing easy. Nora had a bad virus and needed fluids and rest. Marcus sat on the exam table edge holding a emesis basin. Mei rubbed Nora's back. Their hands did not touch each other. Their purpose did. When Nora finally slept in Mei's bed that night between cool sheets, Marcus slept in the guest room by choice and still woke four times to check her forehead. In the hallway at 3 a.m. he and Mei passed each other like night nurses and nodded. The nod said more than some anniversaries.
Daniel's name surfaced once more that spring in a way neither of them expected. A mutual acquaintance from the old company posted a group photo from a conference in Seattle; Daniel stood in the back row smiling the smile of a man who had moved on. Mei showed Marcus the photo without commentary. Marcus looked at it, felt the old heat, then felt it cool into something like weather that had already passed over the mountain.
"You okay?" Mei asked.
"I will be," Marcus said. "Thank you for not hiding the phone."
Small thank-yous became load-bearing walls.
In late spring they returned to Oakland for a weekend without Nora — Gloria kept her in Atlanta for a grandmother visit — and walked the street where they had eaten dumplings twelve years earlier. The restaurant had new owners and the same grease smell. They ordered too much food. Marcus said, "I forgave you in pieces. Not all at once. Some pieces are still sharp."