Maren looked toward the ceiling, where the children’s bedroom was.

“How do you tell an eight-year-old that their grandmother stole their father away?” she asked.

“We do it together,” I said.

She didn’t answer immediately.

She walked past me into the small kitchen.

I followed her.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and old wood.

She put a kettle on the stove.

“You should leave before the reporters figure out you’re here,” she said.

“I’m not leaving you alone to deal with this,” I said.

“You’ve been gone for eight years, Adrian,” she said, her back to me. “I’ve been alone the whole time.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

“I didn’t know, Maren,” I said. “I thought I was sterile. I thought you cheated on me.”

“You should have trusted me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“I know,” I said. “I will regret that for the rest of my life.”

The kettle began to whistle, a low, rising sound that filled the kitchen.

Maren turned off the burner.

She poured hot water into a ceramic mug.