After Jonah leaves, Edi looks into my face, studies it. I’m smiling and smiling. She shifts a little, winces, raises her eyebrows and shoulders in alarm. “You’re good,” I say. “You’re perfect.” Her shoulders drop, and she smiles. My kids did this too, when they were little—they looked into my eyes to make sure they were okay. On a turbulent airplane, their two small faces swiveled over to me to ask, wordlessly, “Are we safe?” We are safe! I beamed back at them judderingly, because what did it really matter if I was wrong? By the time the plane exploded, the fact that they couldn’t trust me
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