The video had not even started playing.
But everything had already changed.
Adrian had spent the past year telling himself that Malik needed time to adjust to having a stepmother.
Now he was beginning to wonder whether his son had been trying to survive her.
Three years earlier, Adrian would never have imagined that his son might become afraid of eating dinner in his own home.
Back then, the dining room had been the happiest place in the house.
His first wife, Danielle, believed family dinners were sacred.
Not because the food had to be expensive.
Not because everyone needed perfect manners.
But because she wanted one part of every day when nobody was rushing toward another obligation.
Danielle Brooks had been forty-one when she died.
She was a pediatric occupational therapist, a woman with luminous brown skin, expressive eyes, and a laugh so contagious that strangers sometimes turned around simply to see who was enjoying life so much.
She met Adrian when they were both twenty-four.
He was a young structural engineer working on his first commercial development project in Baltimore.
She was completing her clinical training.
They met at a friend's cookout.
Adrian spent most of the afternoon trying to impress her by discussing bridges.
Danielle listened for approximately six minutes before interrupting.
“Adrian, do you ever talk about anything that isn't made of concrete?”
He looked startled.
Then laughed.
“Occasionally.”
“Good. Start now.”
They were married two years later.
Malik arrived when Adrian was thirty.
For the first time in his life, Adrian discovered a kind of fear he couldn't solve with measurements, calculations, or professional experience.
He remembered holding the newborn in the hospital.
The tiny fingers.
The soft breathing.
The extraordinary realization that someone so small could become the most important person in the world.
Danielle watched him.
Then smiled.
“You look terrified.”
Adrian nodded.
“I am.”
She laughed.
“Good. That means you're paying attention.”
Their early years were ordinary in the best possible way.
A townhouse.
A small yard.
Long workdays.
Weekend visits to Adrian's mother.
And a boy who became fascinated by basketball before he could properly pronounce the word.
Danielle insisted that Adrian leave work early at least twice a week.
“Your company won't remember the extra hour,” she told him.
“But your son will remember whether you came to his game.”
Adrian tried.
Most weeks, he succeeded.
Sometimes he failed.