I got up before the lights went down.

Tara stood beside the exit in a plain blue dress. She was alone.

“Did you know Maya would be here?” I asked.

“Beth told me there was a performance.”

“You were told Maya didn’t want contact yet.”

“I’m not going near her. I only wanted to see what she made.”

I looked toward the stage. Maya had disappeared behind the curtain.

“This is her night,” I said. “I’m going to ask her what she wants. Until then, please wait outside.”

Tara’s face fell, but she nodded and left through the door beside us.

Beth was in her seat when I returned.

“I didn’t invite Tara,” she whispered. “She saw the program on my kitchen counter.”

“I know.”

I went backstage. Maya was holding a roll of tape and giving instructions to two younger children.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” I asked.

She followed me a few steps away.

“Tara came to the building,” I told her. “She’s outside. I asked her to wait while I checked with you.”

Maya’s smile vanished.

“I didn’t invite her.”

“I know. You can choose whether she stays. The show starts in ten minutes, so take a breath before you answer.”

Maya looked at the children behind her. One held up a painted moon and asked where it belonged. She pointed them toward the stage manager, then turned back to me.

“I don’t want to look out and see her.”

“Okay. I’ll tell her to leave.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No. I’m glad you told me.”

Outside, Tara was standing beneath the awning.

“Maya doesn’t want you here,” I said.

Tara pressed her lips together. “Did she know I was already inside?”

“Yes.”

“I should have asked first.”

“Yes.”

She looked through the glass at the small crowd. “Tell her I hope it goes well.”

“You can put that in a message to me. Tonight I’m going back to my daughter.”

Tara walked away.

When I returned, Maya was waiting at the backstage door. I gave her a nod. Her shoulders eased.

The performance began.

The children sang off-key and forgot lines. One set wall leaned so far to the side that Maya had to hold it steady from behind. She was smiling every time I saw her.

At the end, the youngest cast member rushed out with a painted cardboard star. Maya caught her before she tripped, and the audience stood to applaud.

Maya came to us afterward with paint on her sleeve and joy all over her face.

Isaiah hugged her. Renee took far too many photographs. Beth waited until Maya came to her, then said, “The moon was my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Maya said.

On the drive home, Maya asked what Tara had said outside.

“She understood she had to leave.”

“Did she look sad?”

“Yes.”

Maya stared out the window. “I’m sad sometimes too. I still wanted her to go.”

“Both can be true.”

She looked back at me. “I used to think I had to fix it when she cried.”

“You don’t.”

At home, she pinned the performance program beside her sketches. Then she asked if she could read Tara’s letter.

I took it from my drawer and gave it to her. I stayed nearby while she opened it.

Tara had written that she had excluded Maya from family evenings, hidden Elena’s things, and tried to make her feel responsible for Tara’s unhappiness. She said Maya had done nothing to deserve any of it. She did not ask to be forgiven.

Maya read it twice.

“I’m glad she said it,” she told me.

“Do you want to reply?”

“No. I just wanted to know she remembered what happened.”

She placed the letter in the blue box, away from the photographs.

The next morning, I met Tara and the mediator again. I told her Maya had read the letter but did not want contact. Tara nodded. This time, she did not ask when that might change.

We reached a property agreement soon afterward. I paid Tara for her documented share of the renovations over time. She kept the furniture she had bought before we married. We both signed the papers that would end our marriage.

I felt grief when I left the mediator’s office. Tara and I had once been happy. I could admit that without asking Maya to carry the cost of keeping us together.

That night I told her the decision was final.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m sad. I’m also sure.”

She sat beside me on the couch.

“Can I still miss the nice things about Tara?”

“Yes.”

“She used to make cinnamon toast when I was sick.”

“I remember.”

“I wish she had stayed like that.”

“So do I.”

We watched a movie until Maya fell asleep against my shoulder. I stayed still for a long time, feeling how much trust there was in the simple fact that she could rest there.

When I carried a blanket over her, she woke just enough to say, “Don’t forget to come to my art show next month.”

“I won’t.”

“You have to be on time.”

“I’ll be early.”

She smiled with her eyes closed.

A week later, Dr. Hill asked Maya what she wanted our home to feel like by the end of summer.

Maya thought for a while.

“Like I don’t have to check who’s downstairs before I come down,” she said.