You are walking into a system.
You take the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, you hear Noah make a soft sleepy sound through the nursery door, then quiet again. Your mother comes out of the hallway just as you reach the landing. She is holding a folded burp cloth in one hand and wearing the face she uses for neighbors, church friends, and anyone else who has never seen what she becomes when she thinks she is unobserved.
“Evan,” she says, with practiced surprise. “You’re home early.”
Behind her, Lily stands near the nursery doorway with red-rimmed eyes and one hand pressed to the side of her head. Even from ten feet away, you can see the slight shake in her fingers. She won’t look directly at you. That hurts almost more than the clips, because it tells you she has learned to manage even hope carefully.
“What happened here?” you ask.
