“Good morning,” said her father.

“Hi.”

“Is this a good time for you?”

Amelia nodded.

“Let’s go down to the kitchen,” said her father.

Amelia followed him.

“How was it? Sleeping at Mrs. O’Brien’s?” he asked over his shoulder.

“It was good. Fine.”

Going down the stairs, Amelia was right behind her father. She tried to match his footsteps, making a game out of it. If we’re in perfect rhythm, she thought, we’ll have an okay talk. If not . . .

When they entered the kitchen, Mrs. O’Brien, who’d been rinsing something in the sink, left without a word.

“Did you eat?” her father asked.

Amelia nodded.

“Well,” her father began. He stood behind one of the chairs, grasping it tightly. Amelia imagined him standing behind her, squeezing her shoulders. “Well,” he said again.

Amelia looked at her hands and said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

The house seemed especially quiet. The morning sun made a pool of light on the table between them and coins of light on the wall.

After clearing his throat, her father said, “I think Mrs. O’Brien explained the situation. Am I right?”

“Well, sort of.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Of course, she had questions. But she wanted him to be the parent, to explain things himself, to make things so clear that, perhaps, she wouldn’t have questions. “This is our talk?” she wanted to say. But she didn’t.

She looked at him and looked away. Looked at him and looked away. He reminded her of a self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh she’d seen in Chicago on a school trip. A trim beard. An orange mustache like a giant frown. Piercing eyes. A high forehead and a prominent brow. A certain gruffness.

“Why didn’t you tell me about her?” she asked. “You never tell me anything.”

“I didn’t think there was anything to tell.”

“But there was. Is.”

“It’s not easy for me to talk about certain things,” he told her, looking remote as an unknown star. “You know that.” His discomfort showed in his eyes and in the way his shoulders drooped. There were more, frequent throat clearings, and then he said, “I’m sorry,” with a gentleness that seemed clumsy, even cautious.

The apology made a crack and she wanted to slip in a question before her sudden urge to be brave—a flicker—disappeared.

“I do have a question,” she said.

“All right.”

“Is it possible that the woman on the porch—”

“Hannah,” said her father.

“Hannah,” Amelia repeated. “Is it possible that Hannah—” She wanted to say was following me?, but she couldn’t get the words out. Already the flicker had passed; her bravery had vanished.

She held back, changed course. Maybe it was better to keep this to herself. Her father wasn’t good at this kind of thing—talking openly—and, therefore, neither was she. So, she said, “Um, is she nice? Do you like her? Can I meet her?”

“That’s a barrage of questions,” he replied. He laughed. And after he laughed there was a change. You could almost see him thinking, the wheels turning. His grip on the chair loosened and so did his face. He blinked a few times, then winked at her. “Yes, yes, and yes,” he said. “Now, remember,” he added, “I don’t know if there’s a future with this relationship. Frankly, I’m not quite sure where we stand at the moment.” He paused. “I don’t want to upset you.”