Two Sundays ago, Silvia showed up at our place looking washed-out but stubbornly cheerful—the way people do when they’re trying to outrun a cold by smiling at it. She wasn’t invited; she never is, exactly. She just appears with a pie and opinions. We made room, because that’s what we always do.
Dinner was ordinary until it wasn’t. In the middle of the chatter, I glanced over just in time to see her pass her water bottle to my son, Noah. He took two happy gulps before I could move. I felt heat rush to my face.
“Silvia, he has his own cup,” I said as evenly as I could.
