I started the engine. I drove the car slowly up, stopped outside the huge plate-glass window. There was Elsa on a high stool, alone at the bar. I watched for a while, saw her order a drink.

“M-mmm,” said Franklin again.

I could walk in. I could ask her what she was doing. But Franklin was in the backseat, and we had an appointment at the kindergarten. Besides, I didn’t want to make a scene, carrying my baby into a bar to confront Elsa.

I wanted to believe I could trust my wife.

The kindergarten was a low-slung building, ugly and functional, with a playground around the edges. To the right a sea of baby strollers, to the left crates of toys stacked neatly at the side of the path. At the double gates parents were greeting their children, scooping them up, all laughter and soft loving words, lifting them high. In my arms Franklin kicked happily as he scanned the faces of the children, eyes wide, making happy little ah-ah sounds.

“Okay, love,” I said. “Here we go.”

“EEh,” said Franklin. “Oh.”

Other new fathers sat in the sunshine in overalls and heavy shoes, talking easily among themselves, already forming bonds. I headed nervously past them and in through the door, beneath a finger-painted Norwegian flag, all red, white, and blue.

“Franklin?”

A ponytailed woman with an efficient smile, reaching out with two hands.

“Yes,” I said. “This is Franklin.”

I passed him over. A look of surprise in Franklin’s eyes, and for a painful moment I thought he might cry. The woman turned him toward her, smiled into his face, said, “Hi, Franklin, I’m Leni.”

Franklin smiled back, delighted. “Lll,” he said. “Ni.”

“Hi, Leni. I’m Cal.” I reached out.

She offered me her elbow, then laughed. “Perhaps we do not need to be formal. Hello, Cal. Hello, Franklin. Welcome to father-child evening. Franklin and I will get to know each other while you work with the other fathers, Cal. We will discuss my assessment next week.”

“Wait. You’re assessing him?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nodded, as if this were obvious. “We assess the child’s needs. First through discussion with the child, then with the parents. Your family is multicultural, yes?”

I looked about me, at parents with dark skin, at light-skinned parents with dark-skinned children, all speaking to kindergarten workers.

“I don’t know,” I said, suddenly aware of our whiteness. “I mean, I guess . . .”

“You’re English?” she said.

“Scottish.”

“Your wife is Norwegian?”

“But that’s not—”

“For us, this is two cultures. Let me go talk to Franklin and assess his needs. And then we can see if you agree. Say bye-bye to Papa, Franklin.”

She turned, began to walk away, ponytail swishing halfway down her back.

“He speaks Norwegian too,” I said. She turned to smile and I felt foolish. Then she headed from the room.