He just watched his father with a flat, unblinking attention that I found, if I am honest, a little unnerving.

I kept my hand near his shoulder.

He did not seem to need it.

Sitting through that ceremony was its own quiet trial.

I had promised myself I would feel nothing — that I would be a pleasant, composed stranger at the wedding of a man who no longer had any power over me — and I discovered, as the string quartet played and Kingston recited his vows about honesty and forever, that I could not manage nothing.

What I felt was not jealousy; I did not want him back, had not wanted him back for a long time.