Amara nodded, satisfied. "The tree is ours now."
"Yes," Nia said. "The tree is ours."
Marcus wrapped the rest of the cake. Nia carried Amara to bed and stayed until the child's breathing leveled into sleep. When she returned to the kitchen, Marcus was washing the plates. She picked up a towel. They stood at the sink like countless nights before and after secrets, the ordinary chore bridging what could not be bridged by speeches.
"I love you," Marcus said to the soapy water, as if the declaration needed the cover of domestic noise.
"I love you," Nia said. "I'm still angry some days. Both are true."