Her little hand reached toward the empty chair where I had been sitting.
I turned back to Dana.
“How long has Ryan been bringing Chloe to your house?”
Dana glanced at him.
“Ask him.”
“I’m asking you because he hasn’t told me the truth all day.”
She hugged the ice cream carton against herself.
“Six weeks.”
“Every Sunday?”
“Yes.”
Six Sundays.
Six backpacks packed in our kitchen.
Six stories about Riverside Park.
Six peaceful afternoons when I took baths, read books, called my sister, and thanked my husband for giving me time to myself.
Six Sundays when Ryan came home and kissed my forehead.
And every week, I thanked him.
“Did you know Chloe had severe allergies?”
Dana’s face turned white.
“No.”
She looked at Ryan.
“I asked him.”
“What?”
“The first time Chloe came over, I asked whether she had any allergies.”
She swallowed.
“He told me she could eat anything.”
I turned to Ryan.
“You told her Chloe had no food allergies?”
“I didn’t say it exactly like that.”
“Yes, you did,” Dana said.
She stared at him.
“I was holding peanut butter in my kitchen. I asked whether she had allergies. You laughed and said, ‘She’s easy. She eats whatever we eat.’”
Ryan rubbed the back of his neck.
“I wasn’t thinking about nuts.”
I suddenly understood.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You were keeping the story simple.”
I could see it clearly now.
“If you told Dana about Chloe’s allergies, you would have needed to explain the EpiPen.”
He said nothing.
“You would have had to carry the emergency bag.”
Still nothing.
“And if I noticed that bag disappearing every Sunday, I might have wondered why you needed it for a simple afternoon at the park.”
His face collapsed.
