It wasn’t that I had stopped remembering the happy years.

I remembered our road trip to Michigan, the way we laughed when our car broke down near Toledo, the first apartment where we painted the kitchen yellow.

But those memories could not rewrite what had happened since.

Friday came.

Kyle arrived with a notebook and asked detailed questions about Miles’s sleep.

He was learning.

I gave him credit for that.

When he asked whether I thought we’d ever have a normal conversation again, I answered truthfully.