In March, on the anniversary of Harrison's birth, he called.
"Can I come over?" he asked. "Alone."
He arrived without Sloan, thinner than he had been at the birthday, the muscular confidence of the tan patterned shirt replaced by a gray sweater that looked like apology in fabric form. We sat at the kitchen island. I made coffee in the blue chipped mug. He held his with both hands.
"She's filed for separation," he said.
I waited.
"I didn't know about all of it," he continued. "I knew about some. I authorized some. She had my login. She — Mom, I let her. I wanted her to be happy. I thought if I made her happy enough she would stop needing more. It doesn't work like that."
"No," I said. "It does not."