Grant was standing in the walk-in closet of our master bedroom, sliding wooden hangers along the metal rod as he sorted through his work clothes.

I walked into the bedroom and stopped right at the closet doorway, leaning my shoulder against the frame.

“What have you been talking to Sophie about in your car, Grant?”

He didn’t turn around.

He reached up and smoothed the shoulder of a navy wool suit jacket with his palm.

“I drive her to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Emily.

We listen to the morning radio.”