I remembered believing we were beginning something beautiful.
I remembered Sophia standing beside us with flowers in her hands.
I remembered promising my daughter that Patricia would stay with us forever.
That promise had been made with good intentions.
But good intentions couldn't make a harmful situation safe.
And staying married simply to avoid admitting I'd been wrong would have required Sophia to pay the price.
I placed the paperwork in a drawer.
Then I went home.
Sophia was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework.
When she saw me, she smiled.
"You're early."
I looked at the clock.
Four-fifteen.
I smiled back.
"I am."
She nodded toward the empty chair.
"Can you help me?"
I placed my briefcase on the counter.
"Absolutely."
And as I sat beside her, I realized I hadn't thought about the office once during the drive home.
The first time Sophia invited a friend to our house again, she asked me the same question six times.
Her classmate was a cheerful little girl who loved drawing animals and had recently joined the school's after-class art club. They'd become friends while working on a classroom project, and Sophia wanted to invite her over on Saturday.
I was thrilled.
I tried not to show too much excitement because I didn't want her to feel that every ordinary decision needed to become a major emotional event.
"Of course she can come," I said.
Sophia looked uncertain.
"Even if we make a mess?"
I smiled.
"We'll clean up afterward."
She nodded.
Ten minutes later, she returned.
"Can we use the big markers?"
"Yes."
"And the glitter glue?"
I considered that.
"At the kitchen table, with something underneath to protect it."
Sophia nodded seriously.
Then she returned again.
"What if she doesn't want to eat the snacks?"
I looked toward her.
"Then she doesn't have to."
She seemed relieved.
Later, while I was preparing the living room, she approached one more time.
"Daddy?"
I turned.
"Yes?"
"Will you be mad if we laugh really loud?"
I stopped moving.
For a moment, I stared at her.
Then I knelt.
"Sweetheart, you don't need to whisper in your own home."
Her eyes filled.
I continued.
"If things get too loud, I might ask you to lower your voices. But laughing isn't something you have to be afraid of."
She smiled.
"Okay."
That Saturday, the two girls spent nearly three hours drawing, talking, and laughing.
They covered the kitchen table with paper.
They built a pretend art gallery in the hallway.
They argued over which color a unicorn's tail should be.