She had Claire’s dark hair and she looked at me with the direct, assessing gaze of a child who has been told something important and is trying to match the story to the person.
“You’re James,” she said.
“I am,” I said.
“Mum said you might be nervous,” she said.
“Are you?”
“Very,” I said.
She seemed to find this satisfactory.
She stepped back and held the door open.
The house was warm and slightly chaotic in the way that houses with children always are — shoes by the door, drawings on the fridge, a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table.
Claire came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a tea towel, and behind her was Tom, and behind Tom, peering around the doorframe, was Daniel.
“You made it,” Claire said.
