Then I wiped my face and drove to class.
Two years passed.
Ethan turned twelve.
He grew four inches and complained constantly about having to replace trousers.
He remained academically extraordinary.
But he also became obsessed with baking bread for six months, played terrible guitar for three, and developed a friendship with a boy named Marcus who could not solve advanced equations but could beat Ethan at every video game they owned.
I was delighted.
Denise became familiar rather than occasional.
That was what mattered most.
Not dramatic apologies.
Repetition.
Calling when she said she would.
Remembering that Ethan hated cooked tomatoes.
Knowing when his school breaks began.
Sending books he actually wanted.
Listening when he corrected her.
Occasionally telling him he was being rude when he corrected her too sharply.
The first time she did that, Ethan stared at her.
Then at me.
I raised my eyebrows.
“She’s right.”
