PART 2

Saint Paul received us beneath a dark gray sky in early November.

Rain streaked the side windows of the black sedan as we crossed into the city, turning the streetlights along the Mississippi River into blurred ribbons of soft gold.

I watched local pedestrians hurry across the sidewalks beneath large umbrellas, young couples sharing heavy coats, and college students balancing warm coffee cups against their cold arms.

Somewhere among these busy streets was Savannah.

Somewhere nearby, my precious children were growing up without knowing that I even existed.

The driver slowed at a red light, and Raymond turned the photograph over in his hands as if the other side might contain instructions for fixing the damage I had done.

“Before we reach her house,” he said, “there’s something I should make clear.”

I kept my eyes on the rain.

“Go ahead.”

“Savannah has a husband.

His name is Lucas Bennett.

He’s a pediatrician.

The children use his surname.”

I had been preparing myself for the possibility since that unfamiliar voice answered Savannah’s phone.

Hearing it confirmed was different.

In my office, I had imagined a rival, someone who had moved into a space I considered mine.

On the bridge into Saint Paul, with ordinary families passing us in compact cars, the thought seemed ugly even to me.