There was a Tuesday in April when he dropped a serving dish in the kitchen, and the noise brought both of his daughters to the doorway inside four seconds, standing there white-faced, and he had to sit down on the floor amid the broken china and tell them, in a completely normal voice, that he had simply been clumsy, and that a broken dish was a thing that happened, and that nobody was going to be in trouble about it.

It took twenty minutes.

Rosamund made tea.

Nobody cleaned up the china until much later.

There was the business with permission.

For most of that spring, Lorelai asked permission for everything.

Could she get a glass of water.

Could she sit on the sofa.