His mother was on her hands and knees, patting the floor, playing a game with Rowan. Webster hadn’t been paying attention. Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, a show that made Webster want to grit his teeth, was still on the television. He wasn’t paying attention to that, either.

Sheila was at work.

Rowan’s lips still had tracings of purple frosting. Webster let his mother feed Rowan anything she wanted. His mother had never had a girl she could spoil before. It tickled Webster.

His mother, breathless, got back up on the sofa. Rowan seemed mesmerized by a show that reminded Webster of grass growing.

“You’re Mr. Quiet today,” his mother said, giving him a poke.

“Mom, cut it out. You sound like a character in that stupid show.”

“Mr. Testy now,” his mother said, her beatific expression unchanging.

Webster tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“You want something to drink? Iced tea?”

“No,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, the expression on her face switching to one of concern. “You’re worried about Sheila’s drinking, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s pretty obvious. We have eyes.”

“You and Dad have talked about it?”

“Only to each other.”

Webster looked away, embarrassed.

“It’s not your fault,” his mother said.

“How do you know that?” Webster retorted. “Who’s to say that something I’m doing or not doing isn’t driving her crazy?”

“Has she said as much?” his mother asked. She turned to look at Rowan to make sure her granddaughter was still involved in the television show. “You both have this utterly precious child,” she added.

“I know that.”

“You look so dejected.”

“I am. It’s been a hell of a ride lately.”

“Does Sheila love you?”

“I think so.”

“Then she’ll stop this nonsense,” his mother said. “For you. For Rowan.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Webster noted that his daughter was beginning to squirm as the program neared to a close.

“Get out more,” his mother advised. “Get outside. Go for walks together. Instead of one of you with Rowan at a time, do things together.”

He knew his mother meant well. But it was like offering a man a straw to stop a leak.

Rowan toddled to her grandmother and mashed her face, snot and all, into her knees. His mother didn’t seem to mind. “Just remember this,” she said, patting Rowan’s head, “you can’t regret anything that leads to your children.”

*    *    *

The following Sunday, Webster heeded his mother’s advice. The night before, he’d talked Sheila into taking Rowan to a park in the woods. It had picnic tables and benches and trails and even a place with playground equipment. All three of them would go. “I’ll bring a picnic,” he’d said. “Let’s do breakfast.”

In the morning, he packed up matches, bread, bacon, long skewers, paper plates, juice, paper towels, a skillet, a thermos of coffee, and a couple of mugs. “That looks interesting,” Sheila said.

“You just wait.”

Rowan seemed giddy at the notion of a family outing, and Webster wondered why they hadn’t done more of this before. They’d gone shopping together, had been together when doing other errands, and they’d eaten at his parents’ at least once every two weeks, but outings to the park were infrequent.

While Sheila ran around after Rowan, who had to try out every piece of equipment, Webster made his fire in one of several barbecue pits that dotted the beautiful acreage. As he worked, other families came into the area as well. Most of the kids had just dads with them. The mothers, Webster knew, were sleeping in or simply desperate to have time to themselves.

Webster set out the skillet on the grill above the fire. He cooked the bacon the way his father had taught him to—slowly and with a good scald. The scent made its way over to Sheila, who raised an eyebrow. He set out a paper plate padded with paper towels and left the bacon to drip. Next, he grilled the toast using the long skewers, browning each piece until it started to show dark spots, just as it should be. He poured the juice into paper cups, the coffee into the mugs. Then he put three slices of bacon between two slices of the toast. He made a sandwich for each of them. He thought the other fathers might be envious right about now. When he had everything ready on the picnic table, he called to his wife and daughter. “Come and get it.”

He could tell by the pleasurable moans from both that he’d got it right.

“When you oversell something, I’m usually skeptical,” Sheila said. “This is even better than I imagined.”

“You have to do it outdoors, and you have to use a wood fire. Otherwise it tastes completely different,” Webster said. He watched his daughter open her mouth as wide as it could go to get a bite of sandwich.

“Wish I’d brought the camera,” he said. “You do realize that this is an important milestone?”

“Her first bacon sandwich?” Sheila asked. “I think you need to get out more.”

“My mother said that to me on Tuesday. I am out. We’re all out.”

Sheila drank her juice.

“Want another one?” Webster asked. “I’ve got plenty of bacon cooked already. Just take a second to toast the bread.”

“I’ll take another,” Sheila said.

“Me, too,” Rowan said, though she had just learned to open the sandwich and tear the bacon apart.

Sheila and Webster each had another sandwich. All three sat on the benches facing one another. Webster felt a tenuous flutter of happiness.

Sheila cleaned up while Webster took Rowan for a short walk along a trail. He didn’t want her on the equipment until she’d settled her stomach. The walk turned out to be even shorter than he’d intended because Rowan, like a dog, felt compelled to look at and touch all the rocks and pinecones along the way. When they turned back, he saw that Sheila was idling on a swing.

“Want a push?” he asked when he reached her.

“Sure,” she said.

“I want a push,” Rowan echoed, trying to sit on a swing next to her mother.

Webster pushed both Rowan and Sheila until Sheila was laughing and Rowan screaming in delight. He loved the sounds. Loved them. Finally, Sheila asked him to slow down. “I’m getting dizzy,” she said.

Rowan and Sheila hopped off the swings, and the three sat on a bench along a path not far from the table where they’d had their picnic. Rowan slid off the bench and began exploring the natural treasures on the ground. Sheila was silent. Webster feared a curtain was slowly descending.

“Sheila,” he said. When she turned to him, she had that half smile that he’d learned to distrust.

Webster could create moments, but he couldn’t string enough of them together to make a life.

Webster laid his arms along the bench but didn’t touch Sheila. He kept his eyes on Rowan. He could tell that Sheila was aching for a drink. He told Rowan not to put a pebble up her nose. She looked at him with lids lowered as if weighing the pros and cons. An older woman, sitting on a bench not far from them, leaned forward. It was the first time Webster had noticed her.

“These are the best years of your life,” she said, smiling.

Webster nodded at the woman to acknowledge her pronouncement. Sheila bent her head as if examining the dirt.

“Really,” she said to no one.