I’ve never known him to go to the kitchen or her room or anywhere else in the downstairs portion of the home. But this time, I notice him hesitating. He stands statue-still and regards us as if he’s mentally considering doing something other than fleeing the room. In my mind, I’m begging him to walk over to her. Touch her hair, kiss her head, smile at her. “How…” He clears his throat. “How was your day?” Bea and I both freeze, taken aback by the sudden conversation from him when he’s stayed so quiet before. “Super,” Bea replies enthusiastically. Then she rattles off more in French, and I
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