It was a careless, not even reckless, but simply unguarded, move, not in the least like her. She was never unguarded in her play. I studied my daughter’s face, observed her brown-eyed focus, recognized it, having seen and marveled at her intensity so many times before. Her gaze was bright, aureate, penetrating, and yet this unmindful move seemed somehow important. Easily, clearly a mistake of inattention, one that I would have made over and again, but it was sufficiently uncharacteristic for her that I actually asked if she was certain about making the move. It had been a couple of years since I had put to her such a question and she was puzzled by it, or at least mildly indignant. She watched as I captured her knight with a hardly difficult-to-spot bishop.

“I didn’t see that,” she said.

“Clearly.” I held her captured knight in my palm, not wanting to amplify the event by placing it on the table. “Not like you.” She had for a year been a better, much better, chess player than me. “Anyone can miss something. Take me, for example, I employ such nescience as a tactic.”

She didn’t look up from the board.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she said. She glanced at me, gave the board another steady look, and then resigned, removing her king rather than toppling him, as was her custom. “What the hell is nescience?”

“Tossed it out there just for you.”

“Nice word.”

“Glad you like it.”

“Are you two nearly done?” my wife asked as she passed through the room, her way of saying that someone should start dinner.

“That’s my cue,” I said.

Sarah followed me into the kitchen. “How could I miss that bishop?” she asked, of herself more than me.

“It happens. We all miss stuff. You probably haven’t noticed how handsome I am today. It’s because I forgot to shave.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I opened the refrigerator. “So, what are our options? Is it going to be lamb, or will it be lamb?” I grabbed the paper-wrapped rack.

“Anything but lamb,” Sarah said.

“Then lamb it shall be. The due date should be duly noted.” I gave the package a sniff, then pushed it toward her. “What do you think?”

She pulled away. “I hate the smell of lamb.”

“I think it smells just bad enough to eat. Broccoli and rice to go with?”

“Sure. Might as well live it up. I’ll make a salad.”

I placed the lamb on the heavy cutting board we bought during vacation in New Mexico, then turned to grab a pan for the rice. “The lamb will be good,” I said. “Not oversalted and overcooked the way some people make it.”