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“Yes.”

A small smile.

“Okay.”

I don’t miss how her eyes are shiny with unshed tears.

She picks up her fork again.

And I take another big bite of best lasagna I’ve ever eaten.

I learn during dinner that my son now likes peas.

This is suspicious.

He also knows all of the words to “Jingle Bells,” has developed strong opinions about whether our Christmas tree needs more ornaments, and apparently wants a hamster.

“No,” I say.

Shiloh looks at Noelle.

She immediately lifts both hands. “Do not bring me into this.”

“You said hamsters are cute.”

“They are.”

“No,” I repeat.

“But—” Shiloh argues.

“No.”

Shiloh’s bottom lip comes out. I’m immune. Mostly.

He turns to Noelle.

She points at me. “That’s your father.”

“You’re my...”

He stops.

Noelle goes still. Completely still. Her hand is frozen halfway to her water glass. I don’t think she’s breathing.

I wait.

He looks down at his plate.

The silence stretches.

I watch the struggle on his face. The little furrow between his brows. He’s four. He doesn’t have words for this. Neither do I.

“You can call me whatever you want, honey.” Her voice is gentle. Easy. Like she’s handing him a way out and making sure he knows it’s not a test.

He nods. “You’re my Noelle.”

She gives him a sweet smile and whatever has looped itself around my heart tightens another inch.