George held up a black folder.

“Got it right here.” Then Teresa: “I have a spa appointment tomorrow morning.

I can drop by after lunch.” George did not even argue.

“Fine.

Lucy doesn’t get back until June anyway.” And then Fiona glanced toward the kitchen, toward my daughter, and asked the question that I will hear for the rest of my life.

“What about the kid?” And George looked at Chloe, at his own five-year-old daughter coloring at the counter, and said, “She’s fine.

She’s big enough.”