Elliott looked like me, Katie like Stephen. Elliott was short for his age, dark-haired, without the reddish tints of his father that Katie inherited. His features were small, and he had blue eyes, and when he smiled his face crumpled upwards and his eyes were blue half-moons. The smile was special for being somewhat rare, for he seemed a shy child; after he got to know people, they liked him well enough, but it took him a little longer than others. I thought he was happy. I remember loving him, too.

Katie. Beautiful Kate with the big brown eyes and the long thin body, who danced almost before she walked, for whom music was an invitation. We gave her lessons, both in music and in dance, for a while, but it took the edge off her enjoyment when she learned that there were rules. It was hard to decide to let her quit the lessons, because we thought, the way one does, that maybe if she kept on she could do them professionally one day, but we saw her enjoyment fading, her movements becoming more stylized and conscious, and knew we were ruining it for her. After the lessons stopped, she went back to simply loving to move and sing.

I told them stories and we went for walks, and I always tried, sometimes failed, to have enough time for them.

In our huge house they each had their own bedroom, plus a guest room that they used for playing unless we had company, and Stephen and I had a large bedroom; and the other rooms, the dining and living rooms and the kitchen, were all big and bright, with huge windows, and as well Stephen had a smaller room, a den, where he did extra office work.

It was, I thought, the best life I could have hoped for, better than most people dare to hope for. Healthy, happy children, a loving husband. Even Fletcher. A portrait of happiness — it could sit on a mantel. And I swear I loved them all, and I did the best I could.

And then I left them, left all of it.

Nothing in particular, but something began to happen, and it ended in the spring I came here. The ending was clear and distinct and cold and final; I search, but I cannot find the beginning. I have snapshots in my mind, but there are no answers; only labels on the back.

Mornings: the children and Stephen gone to school and work; me drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, still in my housecoat, feeling — a restlessness, an uneasiness, a spell of ennui, nothing more.