“Morning, Victoria,” he says stiffly. He’s dressed in summer business casual. Brooks Brothers khaki shorts, a sharply pressed button-up shirt with little yellow and green stripes. He’s like a picture from a men’s magazine: fit high-finance at play.

“Is Chelsea all right?” It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

He nods, then clears his throat, shifting from one brown leather boat shoe to the next. He’s nervous. I remember my ex-husband well enough to recognize the signs. But why?

“I thought about what you said,” he states abruptly. “About Evan and the wedding.”

“What did I say?” I ask stupidly.

“Chelsea misses Evan. She thinks it’s unfair for her to be in the wedding but not him. In fact, she says she won’t serve as flower girl if Evan’s not included.”

Michael flushes charmingly, admitting with his expression that he knows he’s being outmaneuvered by a six-year-old, and is already declaring defeat. I’m used to angry Michael. Cold Michael. Frustrated Michael. I don’t know what to make of this man.

He spreads his hands. “Can I come in, Victoria? See Evan? Maybe discuss?”

I still have my body in the doorway, blocking Michael’s presence from our former home. Despite my pleas for him to see his son, now that he’s here, I wish he weren’t. His sudden appearance will agitate Evan, wreck our happy morning. I’ve enjoyed the past few hours. I don’t want them to end.

Too late. I hear footsteps behind me, Evan’s natural curiosity driving him toward the entryway. I know the moment he’s spotted his father because Evan’s footsteps still. I turn around, and will myself to handle whatever Evan does next.

“Daddy? Daddy. Daddy!”

Evan rockets across the foyer. He’s through the door and hurtling into his father’s arms with the speed of eight-year-old lightning. Michael staggers under the unexpected onslaught, but manages to keep his footing. Then Evan is holding his father’s hands and dancing all around him, touching him, poking him, plucking at him, while saying over and over again: “DaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddyDaddy.”

Michael shoots me a look. I shrug. You don’t surprise a kid like Evan. Michael knows that as well as anyone. At least he should.

To give Michael some credit, he doesn’t say or do anything right away. He lets Evan bounce around on his tiptoes, circling, prodding, jumping, shrieking, blowing off steam. Then, when it appears the initial euphoria is subsiding, Michael pats Evan lightly on the shoulder, and says: “Hey, you got tall.”

“I’m very tall. I’m HUGE.”

“Strong, too.”

“LOOK AT MY MUSCLES!” Evan screams, dropping into a bodybuilder’s pose.

I wince. “Evan,” I say, as calmly as I can, “I just filled your pool. Why don’t you show your father your new pool?”