“Your work is beautiful, Mariana,” he said one afternoon, looking at a half-finished canvas.

“It’s hard work,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag. “But it is mine.”

“I never understood how much you gave up for me,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t give it up,” I said. “I just paused it. Now I am starting again.”

“I want to support you,” he said. “In any way I can.”

“Just be a good father to them,” I replied. “That is all I need.”

He kept his promise.

He never missed a school play, and he spent his weekends taking them to the public library.

One Saturday in December, the first snow of the winter began to fall.

The flakes were large and wet, coating the fire escapes and the parked cars in white.

Jonathan had invited us to his apartment for dinner.

He had spent the afternoon cooking a simple pasta dish, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the small rooms.

The twins were sitting at the wooden table, their faces sticky with sauce.

“Can we sleep here tonight, Mommy?” Chloe asked, looking at me with pleading eyes.