I carried the mugs into the living room and set them on the low wooden coffee table.

Greg was sitting on the green velvet sofa, his back stiff, gazing at the framed photograph of Sophie’s ninth birthday party on the bookshelf.

I sat beside him on the cushion and handed him his mug.

He wrapped both hands around the ceramic handle, his index finger tapping his thumb in that quiet, rhythmic counting pattern.

A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching the light from the brass floor lamp beside the sofa.

“Why did you fight so hard for me, Claire?” Greg asked.