I was six months along, and the waistbands of my winter skirts had stopped fitting weeks ago.

Julian reached down, pulled the open leather binder toward his chest, and shut it with a firm snap.

He slid the heavy ledger into his brown leather briefcase and spun the brass lock wheels until both latches clicked shut.

I didn’t ask him about the missing money again before he locked the front office door at five o’clock and walked out to his truck.

At six, I set three white plates of pot roast and boiled potatoes on the kitchen table while the damp autumn wind rattled the back screen door.

Six-year-old Leo sat on his wooden booster seat at the corner of the table, hugging his worn stuffed rabbit tightly against his chest with both arms.

The rabbit had only one black bead eye left, and its faded gray felt ears were frayed down to the white cotton stitching underneath.

Julian carved the dark roast beef without looking up from the platter.

“Eat your carrots, Leo,” Julian said, dropping a heavy piece of meat onto the boy’s plate.

Leo pushed a single orange slice across his plate with his fork.

He looked up at me with wide, quiet eyes that matched the ones in his late mother’s photographs.

“A pretty lady came to my school parking lot with Daddy today,” Leo whispered.

Julian set his carving knife down on the platter so hard the blade clattered against the thick white porcelain.

“That was an interior designer, Leo,” Julian said, his voice twice as loud as the small kitchen needed.