Adrian.
Tall Adrian.
Mommy’s Adrian.
And, briefly, during a school project about community helpers, “Business Adrian.”
He helped her build a cardboard model of Manhattan for class.
It took three evenings.
He approached it like a billion-dollar infrastructure project.
“You cannot use structural calculations on a cereal box,” I told him.
“The bridge is leaning.”
“It’s made of popsicle sticks.”
“That is not a defense of poor engineering.”
Mia looked between us.
“You argue a lot.”
“We discuss,” Adrian said.
“You argue,” she replied.
I smiled.
“She’s very perceptive.”
“I’ve been told.”
At bedtime, Mia showed Adrian the photograph of Daniel painting the recreation-center wall.
“That was my daddy.”
“I know.”
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“Was he funny?”
“Very.”
“Mommy says he told bad jokes.”
“Your mother is correct.”
She smiled.
“Do you miss him?”
The question caught all three of us by surprise.
Adrian answered carefully.
