“It’s a very good rocket.”
He considered this seriously.
“It needs more on top,” he said, and went back to work.
Diane caught my eye from the doorway.
She had seen my face when I first looked at him.
She gave me a small, careful nod.
We sat in the kitchen while Daniel built his rocket and periodically reported on its progress through the doorway.
Diane made coffee.
I had decaf.
We talked for nearly two hours.
She told me about the early years — how she had tried to reach Mark when Daniel was born, how he hadn’t responded, how she had eventually stopped trying.
She said it without bitterness, which I found harder to absorb than bitterness would have been.
“I was angry for a long time,” she said.
“I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t.
But Daniel is the best thing in my life, and I can’t be angry about something that gave me him.”
“That’s very generous.”
“It’s practical,” she said.
“Anger is expensive when you’re doing it alone.”
I thought about that.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Right now.
Practically.”
She wrapped both hands around her mug.
“I’m back at work in six weeks.
My neighbor has been covering the school pickups, but she can’t do it indefinitely.
And Daniel’s been asking questions I don’t know how to answer yet.
About his dad.
About why he doesn’t have one like his friends do.”
“What have you told him?”
“That his dad was sick.
That he loved Daniel even though he never got to meet him.
That sometimes people leave before they mean to.” She paused.
“I don’t know if that’s right.
I’m making it up as I go.”
“I think that’s what everyone does.”
She smiled at that — a real smile, tired around the edges.
From the living room: “Mama, the rocket fell.”
“Build it again, baby.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
We looked at each other across the table.
“I don’t know what this looks like going forward,” I said.
“I have a daughter coming in three weeks.
