She took the children to the library.

She did not mention her son’s name in my house for four months, and when she finally did, in August, it was to ask whether I minded if she put a photograph of him back up in her hallway, because Sam had asked where it went.

I said of course.

He’s their father.

He’s your son.

The Sunday before I moved out of Vernon, she came over while I was boxing the kitchen and stood in the doorway holding a roll of packing tape she’d brought and hadn’t handed over.

“Is there no way,” she said.