I drove us to a diner twenty minutes from the courthouse because neither of us was ready to go home yet. It was one of those old places with red vinyl booths, endless coffee, pie in a rotating glass case, and a jukebox by the bathrooms nobody seemed to use anymore. I ordered grilled cheese for Lily and soup I didn’t want. She drank chocolate milk through a red straw and looked suddenly boneless with exhaustion.
Halfway through her sandwich she said, “I heard Daddy talking to Kelly before.”
I set down my spoon.
“When?”
“A lot.” She picked at the crust with small careful fingers. “Sometimes on the phone. Sometimes in the driveway when they thought I was watching cartoons. One time in the garage.”
I kept my voice as steady as I could. “What did you hear?”
She shrugged. “Grown-up stuff. They said your name. And papers. And that you cry too much.”
I closed my eyes for one second.
“She told him to hurry,” Lily added. “She said if he waited, you would figure it out.”
I reached across the table and took her hand. It was sticky from sandwich bread and wonderfully warm.
“You don’t have to remember any more of that right now.”