Dinner is a quiet, warm affair. Beef stew with crusty bread, butter on the table, lemon slices floating in glasses of water. The four of us sit around the table like a real family — Katie at one end, me at the other, the girls across from each other. The window is cracked open, letting in the cool evening air and the distant sound of a lawnmower from down the street.
Hope talks about her day — the pop quiz she aced in history, Melissa's ongoing commentary about the biology teacher's suspiciously perfect toupee, the rumor about two teachers who might be dating. Normal teenage chatter, the kind that fills a house with life.
I let her talk, asking the occasional question, nodding at the right moments, playing the attentive father. She thrives on the attention. They all do.
"She's funny, Melissa," I say.
"She's the best. You should meet her properly sometime."
"Maybe I will."
Hope grins. She knows what that means. She doesn't mind.
But my mind is already on tomorrow.
