The next few days were a careful balance of pretending. Marga continued to ask questions, her curiosity sharp, like tiny needles probing areas I wasn’t ready to expose. Every time she mentioned Uncle Ezekiel, every time she tilted her head and asked about the picture, I had to plaster on a calm expression and tell her he was just a friend.

“Mommy, why do you like him?” she asked one afternoon, climbing onto my lap as we sat in the living room.

I froze mid-breath, my tea untouched on the ...