Nora accepted this, then asked if she could paint her nails. Mei painted them a careful blue. Marcus came home to blue nails and a child who hugged him harder than usual, and he did not ask why until Mei told him later. He emailed the birthday girl's mother a polite note about conversations at parties. The mother apologized. The seam, welded, held.
Autumn again. The anniversary of the shirt. They marked it privately as they had before. This time Marcus brought home flowers — not an apology bouquet, he said, but a present-tense bouquet. Mei laughed at the distinction and put them in a vase on the pale oak nightstand. Nora declared the flowers professional. The word had become a family joke that no longer drew blood.
That evening, after Nora slept, Marcus and Mei stood in the walk-in closet together and looked at the hanging rows. Marcus's pale-blue shirts. Mei's dusty-rose tops. Nora's tiny jackets. No strangers.
"I used to think the closet was where we stored the life we showed people," Mei said. "Now I think it's where we store the life we refuse to lie about."
Marcus touched a sleeve of his own white dress shirt — the real one, monogrammed, innocent. "She'll wear this again for dress-up. I need to be okay with that."
"Are you?"
He thought of navy silk. He thought of bright brown eyes. He thought of the long road from Jordan's wobbly ceiling fan to this quiet aisle of clothes. "Most days," he said. "Today, yes."