The city lights slid across his face.
He looked tired.
Not unhappy.
Just tired in the way people look after spending a full day with family histories that never fit neatly into conversation.
When the car stopped outside my building, Adrian helped me carry Mia upstairs.
She woke just enough to complain that six-year-olds were too old to be carried.
“You’re correct,” Adrian whispered.
Then he carried her anyway.
After she was tucked into bed, we stood in my kitchen.
I poured two glasses of water.
Adrian loosened his tie.
“You’re quiet.”
“Your father told me something.”
His hand stopped.
“That sentence contains several possible disasters.”
I smiled.
“Nothing terrible.”
“That improves the range.”
“He showed me a photograph.”
Adrian waited.
“Your mother met me once.”
Confusion appeared first.
Then recognition.
“The university exhibition.”
“You knew?”
“I knew she attended one.”
“She wrote my name on the back of a photograph.”
