I think about how I never put together the little clues in Sam’s behavior, and it’s not that I didn’t notice them; I just didn’t see this meaning in them. And for that matter, neither did his parents. But I think there are probably good reasons Josie noticed it and we didn’t, and not just because Sam was perhaps less on his guard around her: it’s because it’s been a long time since we were children, and adults probably expect children to be baffling, with their own rituals and preoccupations that we don’t understand. And then, so much of what’s been going on with Sam looked like things we recognize and tend to reward—like being tidy, or careful, or hygienic.

But maybe most of all, we didn’t notice because of love. Because for the children we love, we want a life with no bad fairies: with only the good fairies, who hand out futures of all charms and no curses, all light and no dark.

Which is impossible, of course. Darkness can’t be banished, only walked through.

And it’s darkness that gives depth to light.

I roll over and prop myself up on my elbow. Oliver’s fast asleep, his back to me, pale in the darkness. I watch his slow breaths rise and fall; the curl of hair around the nape of his neck.

A new year, I think. What darknesses will it bring us; what light?

*

Sam sleeps late the next morning, which after the intense talks of last night, doesn’t surprise me. Meanwhile, I’ve sent an email to my sister. I figure we can talk this all through with Dennis when we see him and there’s no point making him worry from a distance while he’s still in air traffic limbo. But Abigail…she needs to wake up. If this shocks her, so much the better. And if it doesn’t shock her into coming back home, I don’t really know what will.

I text Dinah too: just a short message saying thank you and that she was right about talking to Sam. I don’t think I was very gracious when she called me yesterday. I feel grateful this morning, that I have a friend who I can trust to say the unwelcome things.

Oliver’s making breakfast, slouching around in his tracksuit bottoms, and it feels almost like it used to be—back before the brewery, and the late nights and working weekends, back before the stress of waiting every month to see if the pregnancy test came back positive. I wonder how long we can make it last. For a few hours more, at least, I’m going to savor this: the smell of pancakes, the snow on the trees outside, the coffee cup warm beside me on the table.