THE BOY WHO WANTED TO CALL ME MOM

Dating Dante was an exercise in discovering that the man who could silence a crowded room with a glance had no idea what to do with a supermarket coupon. He wanted to buy me extravagant gifts. I preferred his company and a good sandwich. We learned to negotiate.

He also asked Margaret to help find a separate, qualified afternoon companion for Leo. That way my hours with his son wouldn't be tied to whether Dante and I were dating. I was grateful he understood the distinction.

One Saturday we baked star-shaped cookies. Leo lined the cutters up by size. I mixed the dough, while Dante insisted on operating the oven with the confidence of a man who had forgotten his previous defeat.

The first tray emerged nearly black.

"Daddy," Leo said solemnly, "maybe you should wash the dishes again."

"I seem to have a very limited career in this kitchen."

"You can eat the broken ones," Leo offered.

I laughed. Dante gave me a look so warm it made me forget the spoon in my hand.

After dinner, Leo asked me to read in his room. He chose a book about the moon. Halfway through, he closed it.

"Sophie, can people have two moms?"

The question took my breath away, but I didn't want him to feel he'd asked something forbidden.

"Some children do," I said. "Families are different. Why do you ask?"

He traced the edge of his blanket. "Sometimes I remember my mom singing. Sometimes I don't. If I like someone else, will I forget her?"

"No, sweetheart. Caring about someone new doesn't use up the love you have for someone who's gone."

"Do you still remember Danny?"

I had told him a little about my brother. "Every day. Sometimes it makes me sad. Sometimes I remember something funny and laugh. Both are okay."

"I don't want to forget Mom's voice."

"Would you like to make a memory box? You could put pictures and things that remind you of her inside. You can ask your dad if he has recordings, too."

Leo thought for a while. "A blue box. With stars."

"That sounds perfect."

Dante was waiting in the hallway when I came out. His eyes were wet, though he made no effort to hide it.

"He talked about Isabella," he said. "He hasn't wanted to do that with me. I think he was afraid it would make me sad."

"Maybe you can tell him it's okay for you both to miss her."

"I will."

He opened his arms slightly, an invitation rather than a demand. I stepped into them. He held me carefully, his cheek resting against my hair.

When we drew apart, he looked at my face.

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes."

His lips were gentle at first, and then certain. I reached for the front of his shirt and felt his heartbeat beneath my fingers. No dramatic declaration followed. He simply leaned his forehead against mine and breathed.

"I've wanted to do that for longer than I should admit," he said.

"Then I'm glad you finally asked."

He smiled, that private smile I'd begun to treasure.

Behind the door, Leo called, "Daddy? I found a picture of Mom with a really bad haircut."

Dante closed his eyes. I burst out laughing.

"Coming, buddy," he said, and we went in together.