Nina had become a journalist.

She arrived at Marcus’s house that evening carrying soup and a small notebook she didn’t open.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said when she saw me glance at it.

“I’m not here to write a story about you.”

“Good.

Because I don’t want my face on television.”

“Then it won’t be there.

I’m here because when I was a child, you never treated my mother’s illness like an inconvenience.”