As if summoned by the mention of her name, the light, chaotic thud of footsteps announced the arrival of the only color in my greyscale world. Zariah, our seven-year-old daughter, burst into the kitchen. Her private school uniform was neat, but her spirit was untamable.

“Good morning, Mommy! Good morning, Daddy!”

She kissed my cheek—a quick, warm pressure that anchored me to reality—and then ran to Tremaine.

For her, the statue came to life. Tremaine put down the phone. The corners of his eyes crinkled. He forced a smile that looked almost genuine. “Good morning, Princess. Eat up. Daddy is driving you to school today.”

“Wow! Really? With Daddy?” Zariah’s joy was piercing.

I exhaled, a breath I didn’t know I was holding. At least for Zariah, he could still pretend. This brief, fifteen-minute window was the only time we resembled a family. But the moment the last crumb was gone, the performance ended. Tremaine stood, grabbed his briefcase, kissed Zariah’s forehead, and walked to the door.