The repetition felt almost liturgical. She turned to face him again.

“Do you understand what that makes you?”

His gaze did not waver.

“Imperfect.”

“That’s generous.”

A faint shadow of something — perhaps irony touched his mouth.

“I thought endurance was strength,” he said. “I was wrong.”

“And what do you think strength is now?”

He stepped closer, but not enough to invade her space.

“Leaving when something is empty,” he replied. “And staying when it is not.”

Her pulse shifted at that.

“You’re still in contact with a child who isn’t yours,” she said. “What happens when he grows older? When he begins to understand the details? When he...