I know. I'm sorry you should be. I am. She met his eyes. But I'm not sorry I saw it.
He didn't respond to that. He looked back out the window. His throat was working around something he wasn't ready to say. My wife died 3 years ago, he said. Cancer.
Amara was five. Emily didn't say anything. She didn't flinch away from it. I've been doing this alone since then. The system, the routine, keep everything running.
He stopped. Nobody takes pictures of the men who just keep showing up. You know, nobody sees that as anything remarkable. You show up every day. You do the work.
You hold your kid's hand and people assume it comes easy. They don't see what it costs. I see it. Emily said, "I know you do." He said it before he'd fully decided to. "That's the problem." She looked at him carefully.
"Why is that a problem?" He turned back to her. And this time, he didn't look away. Because I haven't let anyone see it in a long time. And you just walked in like the wall wasn't even there. The air between them changed.
Not dramatically. Nothing external changed. The train still moved. The lights overhead still flickered slightly. The man across the aisle was still snoring gently.
But something internal shifted. The way the air changes before rain. That particular pressure drop that your body registers before your brain catches up. Emily said very quietly. Is that okay?
Marcus thought about it. Not performatively. Really thought about it. Sitting with the question like it deserved to be sat with. I don't know yet, he said finally.
She nodded. That's honest. I'm working on honest. I noticed, she said. And then it looks good on you.