He showed up at eleven with coffee.

Not just any coffee, mine specifically, from the place on Dearborn that requires walking two blocks past a closer and perfectly adequate coffee shop. He was standing in my doorway holding both cups and wearing the expression of someone who had spent the morning rehearsing something and was no longer confident in any of it.

I stepped back and let him in without saying anything.

We went to the kitchen table. I don’t know why it’s always the kitchen table with us, but it is. The rules happened here. The check-ins happened here. Every conversation that mattered seemed to find its way to...