That was the first time I imagined Lorenzo’s hand on my bare skin, an ordinary Monday in his book-cluttered office with the music box tinkling out “Torna a Surriento” and the espresso maker bubbling its thick, sweet coffee.

Lorenzo isn’t a believer or a hater or a coward. He’s in his own category, tucked inside a dark and pleasant corner of my mind.

Chapter Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

Steven is the first to wake up and is out of the house before either Patrick or I start our morning routines. The twins, in a rare feat of self-sufficiency—if not color coordination—have dressed themselves and now pour the last of the milk into bowls laden with multicolored, teeth-rotting puffs of sugar. Leo has his sweater on inside out, and Sam fixes it. Neither of them says much over his cereal.

“What happened last night was only an argument,” I say.

“It’s strange when you talk, Mom,” Leo says.

I suppose it would be, after a year.

By the time Patrick comes in, looking as if he’s had less sleep than he has, the twins are on their way to the bus stop, and I’m dressing Sonia, sliding one thin arm at a time into her Windbreaker. My hand lingers on her red bracelet, and she tugs her wrist away, her small hand slipping from my grasp.

“I’m sorry you had to see that yesterday. With Steven.”

She nods, as if she’s sorry she had to see it too.

We walk to the bus together, as quiet as we’ve been on all the other days of the school year. I have words now, but no idea how to use them, no clue how to make my daughter’s life better, if only for a while.

“No more scary dreams, right?”

Sonia nods again. Of course, she wouldn’t have had any nightmares last night, not with the small dose of Sominex I stirred into her cocoa. Patrick still doesn’t know about that, and I’m not sure I’ll tell him.

“Be good in school,” I say, and help her clamber up on the bus.

Be good in school. What a crock of shit.