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“Sometimes. Sometimes other places.”

Michelle nodded as if she were conducting an interview and had just confirmed a detail. “Do you have a wife?”

“Michelle.”

“What? Grandma, if he’s going to sit in our kitchen dressed like a luxury car commercial, I feel like we should know basic facts.”

Michael lowered his pencil and muttered, “That doesn’t make sense.”

She turned to him. “It makes total sense.”

“It doesn’t. A person can dress expensive and still not be a commercial.”

Margaret pressed two fingers to her temple.

Daniel finally laughed, a short sound that surprised all of them, including him.

Michelle pointed at him. “See? He does know how.”

Margaret looked up sharply, almost as if she had forgotten laughter still existed in this room. For one small second, Daniel saw the woman she used to be before the years had worn her down into discipline and endurance.

Then the moment was gone.

He asked, very evenly, “How old are you both?”

“Nine,” Michelle said.

Michael kept drawing. “Nine and a half.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Only if you’re being annoying.”

“Only if I’m being accurate.”

Nine.

Daniel felt something close around his throat.

He had been gone nine years.

The arithmetic arrived in him like a brick through glass.

Margaret stood abruptly. “I should check the biscuits.”

There were no biscuits in the oven.

Daniel knew that because he had noticed the stove was off.

He waited until she crossed to the counter, until the children were distracted for a moment by arguing over whether a nine-and-a-half-year-old counted as nine. Then he said quietly, “Mom.”

She stiffened.

The children went silent, too. Michelle looked from one adult to the other with the satisfied alarm of someone who knew the movie had finally reached the good part.

“Whose children are they?”

Margaret did not turn around.

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