There was a pause. A scanner beeped near him. "I hear you," he said. "I'm getting the good pasta sauce. And the sprinkles Amara likes. And I'm going to tell you if the total makes me flinch."
"Deal," Nia said.
When he came home, he showed her the receipt. The total was ordinary. The flinch was small. She kissed his cheek and put the sprinkles in the pantry like a sacrament.
Summer approached with longer evenings. Amara finished kindergarten and demanded a ceremony in the backyard with paper diplomas Nia printed and Marcus signed with flourishes. Denise Hayes attended by video call, her face large on a tablet propped against the orange tree trunk. Neighbors came with folding chairs. Someone brought sparkling cider. Amara gave a speech of seven sentences, five of which were about yellow paint and oranges and one of which was about how her mom came home before moving day and was surprised but then stayed. The adults went quiet in that particular way adults do when a child accidentally tells the thesis of the year. Nia raised her cup. Marcus raised his. The evening smelled like cut grass and citrus peel.
After the guests left and Amara crashed into bed with her diploma under her pillow, Nia and Marcus cleaned the yard in companionable silence. Paper cups. A forgotten cardigan. The tablet, dark now, that had held Denise's face among the leaves.
"She told the story," Marcus said.