When I asked her why she loved horror movies so much, she merely shrugged and said that sometimes she liked to be scared.

I didn’t get it, any more than I did the allure of rolling around with wheels on your feet. Why would someone want to be scared? Weren’t there more than enough scary things in real life to keep us awake at night?

Now, though, I think I understand.

Marge liked those films precisely because they weren’t real. Any fright she felt in the course of the film was quantifiable; it would begin, and then it would end, and she would leave the theater, emotionally spent yet relieved that all was well in the world.

At the same time, she’d been able to confront – albeit temporarily – one of the hardwired emotions of life, the root of our universal instinct toward fight or flight. By willing herself to stay put despite her fear, I think Marge felt that she would emerge stronger and better equipped to face down whatever actual terrors life had in store for her.

In retrospect, I think that Marge might have been onto something.

Vivian had returned with London on Sunday evening. Before she left, she hugged me, a longer hug than I’d expected. In it, I could sense her concern, but strangely, her body no longer felt familiar to me.

London had enjoyed her visit, but this time she mentioned that she had missed both her fish and Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles. As soon as she got home, we went up to her room, where she told me that she’d had Thanksgiving dinner in a mansion. I guessed that Vivian had introduced our daughter to Spannerman in reaction to seeing London hug Emily at the art studio. To Vivian’s mind, no doubt, I’d violated the taboo first, which gave her the right to do so as well.

I suppose I should have cared more, but in that moment, I didn’t. I was worn out, and I’d known that London would meet Spannerman sooner or later anyway. What did it matter if it was this weekend, or the next time she was in Atlanta?

What did anything matter anymore?

While London was occupied with the fish, I decided to clean the hamster cage, since I’d let it slide while London was gone. By then, I was accustomed to it, and it took no time at all. I ran the mess to the outdoor garbage can, washed up, then went back upstairs, where London was holding Mr. Sprinkles.

“Are you hungry, sweetie?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Mommy and me ate on the plane.”

“Just making sure,” I said. I took a seat on the bed, watching her, but mainly thinking about Marge. My sister wanted me to keep living my life, to act as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed and I felt hollowed out, as empty as a junked oil drum. I wasn’t sure I was capable of doing as Marge asked, and wasn’t sure I even wanted to.

“Guess what?” London said, looking up.

“What, sweetheart?”

“For Christmas, I’m going to make Auntie Marge and Auntie Liz a vase, like I did for Mommy. But this time, I want to paint fishes on it.”

“I’m sure they’ll love that.”

For a moment, London seemed to study me, her gaze unaccountably serious. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “I’m okay.”

“You seem sad.”

I am, I thought. It’s all I can do not to fall to pieces.

“I just missed you,” I said.

She smiled and came toward me, still holding the hamster.

“Would you like to hold Mr. Sprinkles?”

“Sure,” I said, as she gently placed him in my hand. The hamster was soft and light, but I could feel his tiny claws scramble for purchase as he shifted into place. His whiskers twitched and he began to sniff my hand.

“Guess what?” London asked again. I summoned an inquisitive look. “I can read now.”

“Yeah?”

“I read Two by Two all by myself. I read it to Mommy.”

I wondered if it wasn’t so much reading, as reciting from memory – after all, we had read it a hundred times together. But again, what did it matter?

“Maybe you could show me later?”

“Okay,” she agreed. She put her arms around me and squeezed. “I love you, Daddy.”

I caught the scent of the baby shampoo she still used and felt another ache in my heart.

“I love you, too.”

She squeezed harder before letting go. “Can I have Mr. Sprinkles back?”

Marge quit work on Monday. I know because I got a text from her saying, I’ve decided to retire.

I went by her house after I dropped London off at school. Work could wait. I didn’t care what she wanted; what I wanted was to see my sister. Liz answered the door, and I could tell she’d recently been crying, though only a trace of redness in her eyes remained.

I found Marge propped on the couch with her legs tucked up, wrapped in a blanket. Pretty Woman was playing on the television. It brought back a flood of memories, and all at once, I saw Marge as a teenager again. Back when she had an entire life in front her, a life measured in decades, not months.

“Hey there,” she said, hitting the pause button. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I know the boss,” I answered. “He says it’s okay if I’m a little late today.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I learned from the best.” Marge made room, and I plopped down on the couch next to her.

“Admit it: You got my text, and you came over because you’re jealous that I’ve finally quit the rat race.” She gave a defiant grin. “I figured it was time to live a little.”