We’ve had a terrible time of it this past month, as darling Astrid was hospitalized with acute peritonitis, after suffering a miscarriage. Such a shock for young newlyweds who I’m sure weren’t expecting to be parents so soon after marrying. Of course Astrid is heartbroken, but Jose has been angelic. Such an honorable man, as well as a dear, devoted and understanding husband. There will be other children. I’m sure you agree that this one wasn’t meant to be and everyone is better off.

Kennet looked up. “Is she saying what I think she’s saying?”

Emil lit a cigarette. “I don’t admire the woman but she does know how to get a point across.”

Kennet crumpled the paper in his hand and walked to the far end of the porch, where he stared at the river, stunned. After a moment, Emil’s limping tread scuffed up behind. He offered the cigarette but Kennet waved it off. One drag and he’d upchuck on his shoes. He pressed his teeth together and drew a long breath, remembering the magical afternoon in the cottage. The bouts of decadent, juicy lovemaking. How he’d dozed off after the last time, then rolled, still half-asleep, off Astrid’s naked body, leaving the rubber behind.

Emil cleared his throat. “Do you think the baby she lost was yours?”

Kennet opened his mouth to speak. Then shut it.

“Don’t rationalize, son. Just tell me what’s in your heart. Do you think it was yours?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Right,” Emil said quietly. “So do I. For what it’s worth.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What about?”

Kennet shrugged.

“I’m not angry with you or ashamed of you. Right now I feel nothing but sad. Because married or not, here or there, alive or dead, that would’ve been my first grandchild.”

All at once, the loss of Astrid seemed total. She was far away before, but still present, still connected. Now she was gone. Utterly and irrevocably severed from him. Any last reminders of their love gone. Disintegrated into a hundred silver pieces. Nothing to name or embody or bury.

Kennet’s gaze blurred hot and wet. He turned his head against one of the porch uprights, squeezed his crossed arms tight, clenched fistfuls of his jacket. He locked his jaw tight, refusing to give into the saudade. He’d allow the tears to fall, but he would not help them along. His eyes could leak but he was having none of it.

Emil retreated back to the chair and sat. A long silent time passed while Kennet fought this all-consuming emotion.

He won.

Barely.

“So this is love,” he said.

“So it is.”

“Delightful. Can’t wait to do it again.”

He went to his father. This time he accepted a cigarette and was glad for the bracing bite in his throat and lungs, shoring up the rickety walls he’d built around the pain.