A few months later, in November, I send a quick email to Mr. Faraway: I need some information that he probably has, related to the Board we both sit on. He replies quickly with the information, and I thank him and turn my attention elsewhere, and am surprised to receive another email.

You’re welcome, he says. Also, I have some news I suspect I should share with you as I have been gradually letting the rest of the Board know.

From there, he has cut and pasted an email diplomatically telling friends and family that he and his wife plan to divorce. It’s a tactful letter, asking for civility and respectfulness and mostly for neutral behavior, so that they can manage this hard, shared transition in the best interest of their children. It reflects on all the positive things that have come out of their 25-year marriage.

It is so warm and respectful that I cannot understand how they could arrive at such a point that they could not resolve whatever their differences might be.

I get a hint, though, when I let him know I’m finalizing my own divorce and offer him my support. He replies with a quick message of appreciation and adds, I am confused how we got to this point and I suspect I will be forever.

It is not, he says, where I expected to find myself.

A few days later, I get an email from Mr. Faraway. He send a picture of The Child and his son, singing together in a mock recording studio at the EMP.

Sorry for the bad camera phone picture, he says. We had a great time – thanks for tagging along.

I am the tagalong, the unwanted guest. I remind myself that it doesn’t really matter.

It’s okay not to be perfect, especially when times are tough.

We get to the EMP and I am delighted to discover that it is attached to another museum, which I’ve not yet seen and which is far more interesting to me than Jimi Hendrix’ guitar.  The SciFi museum opened recently, and apparently the admission ticket I receive is good for that, too.

I’m going to the SciFi museum, I say.

Mr. Faraway and his children think this is a good idea, so along with several other people from the bus, we head in that direction. We wander around looking at set sketches and props from Avatar; I take pictures of The Child with a genuine, apparently wood Dalek from the original Tom-Baker-era Doctor Who that I grew up on. We all wait on line together for the kids to have their own Avatar videos made and uploaded to YouTube.

When the downstairs has been exhausted, we head up to see what else there is.

The Child and the boy want to go check out the music section now and begin racing off in that direction, past the giant guitar tornado sculpture. Mr. Faraway says, I’ve got them, and races off too. It happens quickly – suddenly, The Child is just gone, doing what she wants to do, and I’ve lost control of her, the situation.

She can’t even supervise her child properly, he must be thinking.

I wander around for a bit, but then return to the main hall and wait for them. As I stand there, trying not to look as awkward as I feel, I watch concert footage of Freddy Mercury, and idly remember how much The Foreigner loved his music. He played it all the time.

Mr. Faraway returns with two children in tow, and they all tell me what a great time they had. He took pictures, and promises to email them to me. He doesn’t seem annoyed that he had to manage an extra child for a bit, and it dawns on me: This is what fathers do.

I have to think about this for a moment, and I play through my mind all the fathers of The Child’s friends. They do things like this too. Perform in talent shows with little girls, spin them around on ice skating rinks, laugh at their jokes. In some world I have never lived in, this is completely normal and routine. I want to live there too, I think – but I never seem to meet the likes of Mr. Faraway. Actually, I sometimes do meet them, but someone else has almost always met them first.

I’m completely lost in thoughts and stumped for conversation now, but the problem is solved when more of the group starts to gather in the same area. I focus on the music, since it’s hard to hear much else anyway.

We board the bus back, and I get on first, and head toward the back of the bus. Mr. Faraway takes a seat toward the front and begins chatting with another father.

I sit in the back and listen to the chattering of teenagers around me, and wish I had not been so hopelessly needy that I drove away the only conversation I felt safe enough to have.