“You sure?”
“No.”
That surprised both of us.
I had learned by then that saying “fine” did not make complicated things disappear.
“I don't know how I feel.”
Dad nodded.
“That’s allowed.”
“Are you going to marry her?”
“We’ve been dating three months.”
“That is not answer.”
“No.”
“I am not planning marriage.”
“Do you love her?”
He paused.
That was answer.
I looked toward the stove.
Then asked the question that scared me most.
“Does loving her mean you love Mom less?”
Dad switched off burner.
He came around the island.
“No.”
“How?”
“I don't completely understand how either.”
He pulled out the chair beside me.
“Your mother is part of me.”
“That isn't changing.”
“Renee is not replacing her.”
“Nobody can.”
I nodded.
“Does Renee know?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Dad smiled slightly.
“She said she doesn't want to compete with a ghost.”
At the time, that sounded mature.
Later, I would remember those exact words.
The first time I met Renee, she brought cupcakes from a bakery I liked.
Chocolate for Dad.
Strawberry for me.
She had remembered something he mentioned.
I appreciated that.
Renee was thirty-six.
Beautiful in a polished, deliberate way.
Deep-brown skin.
Short black hair cut into a sleek pixie.
Perfect nails.
Elegant clothes.
A way of standing as though every room was already expecting her.
She did not hug me.
Good.
Adults who immediately hug children they barely know make me suspicious.
Instead she held out the cupcake box.
“Your dad told me strawberry is the only reasonable flavor.”
I looked at Dad.
“He lies.”
Renee smiled.
“Good to know early.”
We ate.
Talked.
She asked about school.
Basketball.
Books.
She did not ask about Mom.
I noticed.
After she left, Dad asked:
“Well?”
“She’s okay.”
His face fell.
“Okay?”
“What did you expect?”
“A parade?”
“Maybe one balloon.”
I smiled.
“She’s nice.”
That mattered more.
Over the next year, Renee became part of our routine.
She came to dinner.