I pinned my hair back. Put on small pearl earrings. Covered the shadows under my eyes. Then I dressed Noah in his navy pants, white shirt, tiny blazer, and blue tie.
He looked at himself in the mirror and grinned.
“Dad’s gonna think I’m fancy.”
I knelt in front of him.
“Noah, listen to me. Today might feel confusing.”
His smile faded.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Never. Nothing today is your fault. Nothing grown-ups do is your fault.”
“Is Dad mad?”
The word hit me sharply.
“No,” I said, though I had no idea. “But adults sometimes make bad choices, and when they do, other people have to tell the truth.”
He considered that with the seriousness only a six-year-old can bring to a sentence too large for him.
“Are we telling the truth?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and lifted his folder.
“I brought the picture.”
I kissed his forehead.
“Then let’s go.”
St. Michael’s stood white and elegant beneath the afternoon sun, its steeple rising into the sky as if nothing dishonest could happen beneath it. The street outside was crowded with polished cars, photographers, women in silk dresses, men in summer suits, and flower arrangements so elaborate they looked like they had been designed by people who had never worried about rent.
