Chapter 1
My husband missed my daughter’s first piano solo.
Forty minutes before the performance, Ethan had been crouching in front of Lila, smoothing the skirt of her dress with the care of a man who had never missed a single important moment in her life.
“Front row, center,” he said, pointing to the seat with his name on it. “I’ll be right there. I want to hear every note.”
Lila had been so nervous her fingers were cold. After that, she nodded.
She was thirteen and liked to pretend she didn’t care what anyone thought. Yet every time she practiced, she asked me the same question.
“Do you think Ethan will really come?”
I was fixing her hair clip when Ethan’s phone rang.
One glance at the screen drained the warmth from his face.
“There’s a problem at work,” he said, already reaching for his coat. “A client got sick. Everything’s a mess. I need to go.”
“Now?” Lila asked.
“I’ll be back soon.” He kissed her forehead, his voice steady. “Go onstage. I promised I wouldn’t miss it.”
After he left, Lila kept staring at the empty seat.
Twenty minutes passed. The lights dimmed, and her teacher signaled that it was time. Then my phone buzzed.
It was Ethan.
I left my medication in the car. Can you bring it to Hawthorne Club? I’m inside and can’t get away.
When his migraines hit, he could barely read without getting sick. Once, I had found him pulled over on the side of the road, too dizzy to drive.
Lila was about to go onstage, and I should have stayed. Yet she looked at me and said, “Go, Mom. I’ll be finished with my first piece by the time you get back.”
I left her with her teacher and drove to Hawthorne Club.
The receptionist told me Ethan wasn’t in the meeting room. He was in the glass conservatory out back.
Before I reached the door, I heard laughter.
“Daddy, hurry up! The candles are melting!”
I stopped.
A little boy of about six stood beside a birthday cake, wearing a paper crown. He was climbing onto Ethan’s knee while Ethan steadied his shoulder and straightened his hat with effortless familiarity.
Then I saw the plate beneath the cake.
It was red, painted with tiny holly leaves around the edge.
Eight years ago, Ethan had bought it and told me we would save it for the child who made our family complete. I had kept it on the highest shelf in the kitchen.
Now it sat beneath another child’s birthday cake.
The bottom faced outward. Six small lines had been carved into it.
Noah’s Birthday.
Year One.
Year Two.
All the way through Year Six.
Ethan’s mother, Janice, sat beside the boy, helping him unwrap gifts. Renee, a woman I had met only twice before, stood close to Ethan, wiping frosting from the corner of his mouth.
“Daddy never misses my birthday,” the boy announced proudly, wrapping both arms around Ethan’s neck.
I took out my phone and called my husband.
Inside the conservatory, Ethan saw my name on the screen. He bent down and kissed the boy’s hair before walking into a corner to answer.
“Clara,” he said, his voice as gentle as ever. “I’m still at work. Things are complicated. I may not make it back for the performance.”
Through the glass door, I watched him hold the boy named Noah.
And the seat in the front row, the one reserved for Lila, had been empty for half an hour.