dinners.
I told him he had empty-nest syndrome.
He called it “household utilization decline.”
Same thing.
One evening we ended up in the old office.
Different desk now.
Less intimidating.
More windows.
A framed photograph of Mia at graduation sat beside Alessandro’s computer.
He looked at the floor.
“Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly where?”
I pointed.
“There.”
“Eight months old.”
“Yes.”
“One sock.”
“Yes.”
“She nearly destroyed my tie.”
“You still talk about that tie.”
“It was handmade.”
“She improved it.”
He smiled.
Then:
“You know what I thought when I first saw her?”
“What?”
“That someone had breached security.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
“And then she smiled.”
“So?”
“I realized she didn’t know who I was.”
I looked at him.
“She didn’t know she was supposed to be afraid.”
That sentence sat between us.
“And?”
“I think that was the first time I wondered how many people were afraid
