I invested mine in a down payment for this place.

Charlie’s money went into his first failed business.

“How timely,” she says with a smile. “You received the money from that car accident in your youth just a week before we learned about the twins.”

“And you insisted on buying a home.”

“It was a good investment.”

But I wasn’t, I think, struggling to control two people inside my mind, one trying to override the other, the angry half winning.

“You hated this place from the start.”

“It was a starter home, Nick.” She shakes her head sadly. “Not meant to be a forever home.”

“Was I a starter husband, then?” I say lightly, standing and reaching for the espressos Jean-Marc offers us both, his face neutral, eyes on me.

I don’t do this.

And he’s picking up on it.

He goes back to the kitchen for Simone’s brandy.

You raise babies into toddlers, then preschoolers to tweens, and finally teenagers become young adults, all the while fully formed in their humanity, just needing time to mature and grow. Roots and wings, the saying goes. Children need both.

I’ve given them roots.

Their mother cared more about her own wings than theirs.

“Starter husband? What an American concept,” she says disdainfully, drinking her espresso quickly.

“I think you gave it a French twist,” I add, going into the kitchen, grabbing another beer.

Jean-Marc’s face lights up. “Dad?” He’s looking at the bottle in my hand.

“Of course you may,” Simone interrupts, waving her hand. “Drink. Another stupid American concept. You can fight in a war but not have a glass of wine.”

It’s the first time Jean-Marc’s asked since he came home from college. He’s nineteen now.

“Sure,” I concede. I need all the points I can get.

Simone watches me, eyes calculating, taking in the change. “Why don’t you drink some Cabernet, Jean-Marc?”

He cracks a beer and stands next to me across the living room.

Solidarity takes on many forms.

“Maman!” The moment is broken by Elodie and Amelie’s twin shrieks as they barrel through the front door, glomming onto Simone like barnacles. She gives them double-cheeked kisses and fusses with Amelie’s new haircut.

“Trés chic!” Simone declares, holding Amelie’s chin between her thumb and index finger, checking the angle over and over. “You look five years older!”

Amelie beams.

I unclench a millimeter. The kids are always happy to see Simone.

“And Elodie, I expect to meet Brandon. You’ve told me so much about him.”

Elodie’s eyes instantly grow shiny with unspilled tears. “Oh. Um, we broke up.”

“When?” The question comes out like an accusation.

I re-clench.

“Three weeks ago.”

“Oh. Well, you are a beautiful, intelligent young woman. He was stupid to leave you.”

“I dumped him, Maman.”

“Why?”

“Because he hooked up with someone else.”

“Hooked up?”

“He screwed someone else,” Jean-Marc announces, giving Elodie the side-eye.

“Shut UP!” The two begin squabbling.

Simone and I exchange a rare look of sympathy.

And then we laugh together for the first time in fifteen years.

It doesn’t last long, as Jean-Marc, Elodie, and Amelie stop dead in their tracks – both physical and verbal. Simone reaches for my arm, the butterfly touch of her fingertips against my wrist making electricity shoot through me.

Not the kind I like.

The kind that says you’re being stalked by a wild game animal.

The laughter dies in my throat as I realize three sets of curious, very wary eyes are on us.

Our children have not seen us in the same room together in years. Once the girls turned sixteen, they insisted on being independent with their flights to France. I no longer accompanied them. Simone came for their high school graduation nearly four years ago. That was the last time the kids saw us together, and the day was interminably fake.

Of course it was.

Rolf was there.

This feels odd. Off. My protective sense goes into high gear, ears perked, arms and legs filling with pumping blood, ready to shift into danger mode. Simone smiles, her face sweet and genuine for a flicker of time, just enough to make me think of how she looked the day we met on campus during my freshman orientation at RISD, her senior year. The age difference never bothered me; she seemed to enjoy it.

She is from a family with money, a long line of famous sculptors to royalty throughout Europe.

She was a rare bird, exotic and alluring.

I was the solid American, dashing and new.

New World met Old World.

She colonized me.

“The concert starts in three hours. I have to be there early!”Amelie says, making me pay attention to her. Dressed in a classic black suit, the jacket high-waisted, the skirt long and flowing, she’s elegant, hair perfect, face done with makeup that is understated and nuanced, designed to show off high cheekbones and a stateliness I’ve never seen in her before.

“We’ll be right behind you,” I tell her with a smile. Simone watches me.

Not Amelie.

“You have VIP tickets, so you don’t have to rush, Daddy.”

Simone stiffens at the word Daddy. She’s always preferred Papa.

Which is why I’m Dad and Daddy. She got to name the kids. I chose what they call me.

“But we need to park,” Jean-Marc adds with a laugh, then a small belch. I notice his beer bottle’s empty. “And the nearest garage is a hike.”

“I’ll drive,” I say, raising my eyebrows at his bottle.

“Of course,” Simone says, her hand still on my wrist, remaining. “As it always was.”

As it always was.

* * *

My daughter – our daughter – delivers a flawless performance for her concert.

And all Simone can do is critique.

“Your articulation on the reed needs more precision,” she says, her voice all business. I’ve wondered whether Amelie chose to play oboe because she thought it would bring her closer to Simone. Would offer some affinity, or just a sense of approval.

If that was her motivation, it’s backfired horribly.