I kiss him back, delight in the leathery smell of his aftershave, the warmth of his body. I feel normal. I feel like the Claire I remember, unbounded by lost minutes and scattered thoughts. I feel—

“Ho-ly cow! What are you doing to her, Daddy!”

Tate groans and pulls away from me but doesn’t seem embarrassed or upset. “Hi, peanut.” He crosses the room, kisses the top of her head.

“Daddy,” she says with a stomp of her foot.

“I was kissing her,” he says with a chuckle.

“Well, did she want you to do that? ’Cause it looked messy.”

I start laughing, first behind my hand because I don’t want the girl to think I’m laughing at her, but when Tate starts, I can’t help it, and soon all three of us are laughing, and the sound mingles with the lingering smell of cinnamon rolls.

My phone buzzes. Doughnut day with Maree at school. I hold it up. “Should we go?”

“Yes!”

The three of us take the elevator to the basement, then use the tunnel to get to the school. Inside, a surprising number of kids and adults are spread out in the small cafeteria. Maree sprints to the kitchen, throws her arms around a woman who is surrounded by mixing bowls, wooden spoons, and measuring cups. My breath catches because the woman is my mother, and she couldn’t look more in her element than at this moment. She wears a black-and-white-printed apron, and her dark hair is pulled into a loose bun. Kids flank her on either side, elbows on the counter, eyes trained on the dough she spins in a mixer. I’m rooted to the floor when she looks up, catches me staring at her, and a smile lights up her face, illuminates her eyes. I smile back.

“Today we’re making glazed doughnuts,” she tells the kids.

A tiny girl with a pink headband in her silky black hair says, “Can I put chocolate on mine?”

“Yes, of course, but first we have to make them. Who wants to help?”

Every kid raises a hand. While they work, Tate snaps pictures and records short videos with his phone. He promises to put everything in a memory catalog he’s making for me.

While the kids are eating the finished doughnuts, Mom comes over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Hi, Claire. This is a surprise.”

Maree’s chest puffs up. “I invited her.”

“That was a great idea, Maree. Thank you.”

A woman approaches with two little kids, no more than five and seven, trailing her, doughnuts in hand. The woman’s hair is greasy, pulled back into a lank ponytail, and I notice her eyes—red rimmed, tired—a small tremble in her hands. I push down a lump; my eyes go to the kids.

“They loved it. Thanks for inviting us, Alice.”

My mother touches her shoulder. “Anytime, Jory. Call me if you need me, okay?”