“This city’s so big,” I said.

He smiled. “It’s home for me.”

In Washington, Antonio had been the outsider and I the native. This had magnified me, no doubt, in his eyes. “Do you feel English now?”

“Oh no. Of course not! Not if I was here for forty years. Erica and our friends, they are talking about their childhood, their teachers. I know about the dinner ladies. I know all about the eleven-plus.” I raised my brows. “This exam they used to give to kids to decide their future. The point is, I have nothing to say. I did not grow up here. I’m not going back to Spain,” he added. “That is for sure.”

“Why not?”

“I am a happy transplant.”

“Completely happy, Antonio?”

He looked up. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?” He spaced his syllables evenly. “Wherever you raise your children is home.” He paused and repeated: “Why do you ask?”

“Tell me about your sons.”

“Eve, really . . .”

“They are Maddy’s half brothers. I have a right to know.” I kept my voice light. “Oscar must be eight now and Daniel’s six?”

“How did you know?”

“The letters, remember?”

“They are a handful. They argue sometimes. I guess that’s normal. But the older one looks out for his brother.”

“Are you going to have any more?”

He smiled at the intrusive question. “We have not decided for more. But you never know. You cannot always plan these things.”

“Really?” I said, mocking. “Can I see a picture of them?”

Again he looked shocked.

“Please. I’d like to.”

He found one on his phone and handed it to me without a word.

The boys sat on a low wall, gripping it with both hands. Their mother leaned down from behind to fit in the frame, an arm around each boy in the green-gold of summer. Hold still. Smile for Daddy . . . The instant the picture was taken was nothing to them now, a forgotten speck of time. I did not trust my voice. Enlarging the image with my fingers, I studied each face in turn. Of course he would have an interesting wife. Alison was right. Of course she would be much younger than he was. The older boy had Antonio’s springy reddish brown hair, the same confident backward tilt to his head. The small one was fair like his mother, with her wide-apart eyes and pointed chin.

“Do they like school?”

“They don’t like sitting still all day! It is hard on boys to sit still.”

“They’re at the same school?”

“Year two and year four. All Saints is very good. One of the best in Lewisham. The Church of England can’t hold on to its members, but it still runs good schools.”

His phone had gone dark and I handed it back.

“They are both great readers,” he was saying. “We try to keep the screen time down.”

“Good for you.”