By Thursday evening Sophia was at my kitchen table with her shoes off and a glass of wine in her hand and Noah on the sofa behind us explaining to her in considerable detail why his science project was better than every other science project in his class, a position he held with complete confidence and zero self-awareness, which was one of his most endearing qualities.
It felt like breathing again. Like the long tightly held tension of the past eight months had been given permission to soften, just slightly, just at the edges, and the kitchen was warm and Sophia was here and Noah was loud about volcanoes and everything was exactly what it should be.
Then Sophia's face changed.
She had picked up her phone, glanced at something, and set it back down with the specific expression she wore w
