"Nia, please let me explain."
Amara, still pointing, still innocent of the weather that had entered the foyer, smiled as if she were introducing a favorite aunt.
"She helped Dad choose our new house."
Nia felt the words land in her chest like something dropped from a height.
"Our new house?"
For a long moment nobody moved. The foyer held them like a photograph that had been left too long in the sun—edges curling, colors wrong. Nia remained on one knee beside Amara, her hand still resting on her daughter's narrow back, and felt the child's heartbeat through the cotton of a cartoon T-shirt that Nia had never seen before. Seven months. Children grew out of shirts. Children also, apparently, grew into secrets.