“Think about it, Mom,” David said, taking a step toward the kitchen table.

His boots clicked sharply against the patterned linoleum.

“A lonely man shows up at your dance class,” David said.

He counted the points off on his fingers.

“He just happens to share your exact grief,” he continued.

“And now, he magically has a connection to Dad’s hometown?”

“It is not magic, David,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the cool wood of the table.

“It is a small world, and sometimes people who suffered the same losses find each other.”

David let out a short, harsh laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement.

“He is using you,” David said.

“David, please,” Rachel murmured from the corner, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater.

“No, Rachel, look at her,” David said, pointing a finger toward me.

“She is ready to hand over everything Dad built to a stranger.”

“Harold is not a stranger,” I said.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my shoulders to remain steady.

“He is a decent, grieving man who loved his wife just as I loved your father.”