My mother called him back. I heard her seething voice through the walls. I heard the ultimatum she delivered through tears—that either he sort his priorities out and finally show up for his daughter or get out of our lives for good, monthly child support checks and all.

He never showed up.

And when I stood on the stage, accepting my academic award, it was with puffy eyes and a forced smile, and a silent promise to myself that I would never trust him again.

Simon hesitates, his wise gaze peering out into the darkness. “Did you know that your mother was still in love with Wren when we got married?”

“What? No, she wasn’t.”

“She was. Very much so.”

I frown. “But she was married to you.”

“That doesn’t mean she didn’t still love him.” A pensive look fills his face. “Do you remember when your mother went through that phase, when she changed her hair and started working out almost every day? She was highly irritable with me.”

“It’s fuzzy, but yeah.” She dyed her hair platinum blonde, and started going to yoga obsessively, reversing the softening effects of middle age and turning her body hard again. She was throwing petty jabs at Simon between sips of morning coffee, picking at his personal faults over lunch, sparking colossal fights over everything he wasn’t by dinner.

I remember thinking it was odd, that I’d never seen them fight at all, let alone that frequently.

“That all began after Wren called to say he was coming.”

“No, it didn’t,” I begin to argue, before stopping myself. Simon would have a much better grasp of that timeline than I would.

“When your mother left Wren, she did it hoping that he would change his mind about staying in Alaska. He never did, but she never stopped loving him, despite it. Eventually she knew she had to move on. She met me, and we married. And then all of a sudden he was coming here, back into her life. She didn’t know how to deal with seeing him again, after so many years. She was . . . conflicted about her feelings for the both of us.” If Simon is bitter about admitting this, he doesn’t show it.

“That must have been hard for you.” My heart pangs for the man I’ve come to know and love as a more than suitable replacement for my birth father.

Simon smiles sadly. “It was. But I noticed a change in her after your graduation. She was less anxious. And she stopped crying.”

“She was crying?”

“At night, when she thought I’d gone to sleep. Not often, but often enough. I’m guessing it was guilt over harboring feelings for him. And fear for what might happen when she saw him again, especially so soon after marrying me.”

What exactly is Simon suggesting?

He presses his thin lips together as he wipes the lenses of his reading glasses on the cuff of his sleeve. “I think she finally accepted that neither of you would ever have the relationship you longed for with him. That wanting someone to be something they’re not won’t make it happen.” Simon hesitates. “I’ll selfishly admit that I wasn’t entirely unhappy that he never came. It was clear to me that if Wren were willing to give up his home, my marriage to your mother would have dissolved.” He toys with the gold wedding band around his ring finger. “I will always play second fiddle to that man. I knew that the day I asked her to be my wife.”

“But why would you marry her, then?” As glad as I am that he did, for her sake as well as mine, it seems like an odd proclamation.

“Because while Susan may have been madly in love with Wren, I was madly in love with her. Still am.”

That, I know. I’ve seen it, with every lengthy look, with every passing kiss. Simon loves my mother deeply. At their wedding, my grandfather gave a mildly inappropriate speech, commenting on the two of them being an unlikely pair—that my mother is this vibrant and impulsive woman, while Simon is a calm and practical old soul. “An unexpected match, but he’ll sure as hell make her much happier than that last one” were my grandfather’s exact words over the microphone to a room of a hundred guests.

The old man was probably right, though, because Simon dotes on my mother, granting her every self-satisfying whim and wish. They vacation at expensive, all-inclusive tropical resorts when he’d rather be visiting dusty churches and ancient libraries; he’s her pack mule when she decides she needs a fresh wardrobe, schlepping countless bags through the streets of Yorkville; he humors her love of Sunday road trips to country markets and then comes home sneezing from the dozen allergens that plague him; he’s given up gluten and red meat because Mom has decided she doesn’t want to eat them. When we redecorated the house, my mother chose a palette of soft grays and pale mauves. Simon later confided in me that he despises few things and, oddly enough, the color mauve is one of them.

In the past, I’ve found myself silently mocking the gangly Englishman for never putting his foot down with my mother, for never showing a spine. But now, as I gaze at his narrow, kind face—his feather-thin hair long since receded from his forehead—I can’t help but admire him for all that he’s put up with while loving her.

“Did she ever admit her feelings to you?” I dare ask.

“No,” Simon scoffs, his brow furrowing deeply. “She’ll never admit any of this to me and don’t bother confronting her about it. It’ll only stir up guilt that does none of us any good.”