The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

Damian settles into fatherhood slowly and awkwardly, like a man trying to assemble furniture from instructions written in a language he should have learned years earlier. He misses cues. Asks obvious questions. Buys the wrong diaper size twice. Once panics when Mateo spits up on his cashmere sweater and looks so alarmed you nearly laugh in spite of yourself.

But he keeps coming.

Not always gracefully. Not always well. Yet enough that Mateo begins to know his face, then his smell, then the particular rumble of his voice. You watch it happen with an ache so mixed you stop trying to name it. Love for a child is often forced to share a room with all sorts of unwelcome guests.

One afternoon, when Mateo is four months old and damp from the bath, Damian lingers after a visit.

The baby is asleep upstairs. The house is quiet except for the dryer thumping in the laundry room. Damian stands in the kitchen, looking thinner than he did in marriage, less armored. Failure has a way of removing expensive padding from a person.

“I owe you more than what’s in those papers,” he says.

You are drying bottles at the sink. “That’s true.”

He takes a breath. “I don’t expect forgiveness.”

“Good.”