His face looked softer than it had all week, his mouth curved into the easy, familiar smile he used when he was twelve years old and needed ten dollars for the skating rink.

“I picked up those apple tarts you used to like from the bakery on High Street,” he said.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands folded in my lap, smoothing the blue wool down over my knees with both thumbs.

“Thank you, Mark,” I said.

He took a step closer and rested one hand on the wooden bedpost.

“Look, Mom.