Afterward, he asked:
“Well?”
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“The coffee was terrible.”
“It’s free.”
“That doesn’t make it less terrible.”
He smiled.
“Next week?”
I hesitated.
Kiara shouted from the back seat:
“Yes!”
That settled it.
For the next seven weeks, Harbor Light became part of our routine.
And I stopped questioning it.
Brian seemed lighter on Sundays.
He volunteered to help stack chairs once.
Started chatting with other fathers after service.
He even bought a Bible, which I found amusing enough to mention.
“You own one now?”
“Apparently.”
“Do you know where Genesis is?”
He gave me a look.
“I’m new, not stupid.”
Kiara loved the children’s program.
Especially because of Owen.
Owen was seven, almost eight, with messy brown hair and the kind of serious expression that made everything he said sound like a formal announcement.
By the third week, Kiara knew his favorite superhero, his least favorite vegetable, and the fact that he lived with his mother.
One Sunday she climbed into the car and said:
“Owen says his dad doesn’t live with him.”
I buckled my seat belt.
“A lot of kids have parents who live separately.”
“He says he’s only met his dad a few times.”
Brian’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
I noticed that too.
Again, I did not understand it.
Kiara continued.
“He said his dad works a lot.”
Brian started the car.
“Well, maybe they’re figuring things out.”
I looked at him.
“That sounded oddly specific.”
He shrugged.
“Probably what his mom told him.”
“You know his mom?”
Brian paused.
“I think I’ve seen her around.”
Another lie.
Her name was Maren Bell.
I did not meet her properly until week five.
She was standing near the children’s check-in desk when Kiara ran over to Owen.
Maren was perhaps thirty-six, with dark auburn hair tied at the back of her neck and a quiet face that became prettier when she smiled.
She looked at me and said:
“You must be Kiara’s mom.”
“I am.”
“I’m Maren. Owen talks about Kiara constantly.”
“Same situation at our house.”
She laughed.
Then Brian walked up behind me.
Maren’s smile changed.
Not much.
A tiny hesitation.
Her eyes met his.
Brian said:
“Morning.”
“Mornin’.”
That was all.
I remember it because later I replayed that ten-second exchange until I hated myself for not seeing what was inside it.
At the time, I assumed they had spoken before because our children had become friends.
By March, church no longer felt like Brian’s strange new hobby.
It felt like something our family did.
I liked a few women there.
