"I'm sure you can handle all this on your own." His voice stays maddeningly calm. "But taking care of yourself while building a business is different from taking care of yourself while pregnant with twins and building a business. The math changes."
The math. Like this is an equation he can solve.
"I'm not a problem that needs solving," I say.
"That's not what I'm saying."
"It's exactly what you're saying." I feel every muscle in my body tense up. "You're already doing it. Already thinking about how to fix it all. And I know you mean well, but I can't?—"
My voice cracks. I stop, pressing my lips together, willing myself not to cry in this cafe.
Grant's quiet for a moment. Then he signals the server and asks for the check. When he looks back at me, there's something different in his expression.
"Let's get out of here," he says quietly. "Walk with me?"
I should say no. Should go home, flop down on the couch and figure this out on my own the way I've figured out everything else.
But I'm so tired. And Grant's looking at me now like he actually seesme, not just the problem I represent.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
He pays—probably left a tip that's more than my grocery budget—and then we're outside, the spring evening cool around us. Grant gestures toward the park across the street, and I fall into step beside him.
For a few minutes, we just walk. The path is lined with trees just starting to leaf out, that fresh green that makes everything look hopeful. There are joggers, dog walkers, a group of college students sprawled on the grass. Normal people living normal lives.
I wonder if I'll ever feel normal again.
"I'm sorry," Grant says finally.
I glance at him, surprised. "For what?"
"For immediately going into fix-it mode back there. More than once." He shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders less rigid now that we're moving. "It's a bad habit. When I'm confronted with a problem, my instinct is to solve it. Make it manageable. But you're right—you're not a problem. And this isn't a business deal I can structure."
The apology catches me off guard. I was braced for him to argue, to insist he was just being practical.
"I know you mean well," I say, softer now. "But you have to understand—my whole life, I've watched my father fix things for my mother. Solve her problems. Make decisions for her. And every time he did, she got a little smaller. A little less herself." I stop walking, turning to face him. "I can't become that. I won't."
Grant stops too. When he looks at me, there's no defensiveness in his expression. "Tell me about what your mother used to be like. What you remember..."
The request is so unexpected that for a moment I don't know what to say. No one ever asks about my mother. She's just there, in the background of my father's life. The perfect accessory.
"She used to paint," I hear myself say. "Before she married my dad. She was good—really good. She had this studio in their first apartment, and she'd spend hours there, creating these beautiful abstract pieces. She even had a gallery show once."
"What happened?"
"My father happened." I can’t hide the bitterness in my voice. "He didn't forbid her to paint. He's too smart for that. He just made it... impractical. They needed the studio space for his home office. Supplies were expensive. Wasn't his income enough? She didn’t need to inconvenience herself by trying to make her own money. Slowly, piece by piece, painting became something she no longer did."
Grant's jaw tightens. "And you're afraid I'll do the same thing to you."
"Not on purpose," I say. "I don't think my father meant to erase her either. But that's what money and power do—they make it so easy to solve everything, to smooth over every difficulty, until the person you're helping no longer has a say in anything.”
We start walking again, slower this time. Grant's quiet, and I can practically feel him thinking.
"My daughter hates me," he says finally.
The comment throws me. "What?"
"Samantha. My eighteen-year-old daughter." His voice is careful, measured. "She's furious about the divorce. Thinks I destroyed our family because I was bored with her mother. Shebarely speaks to me unless she needs money, and even then, it's usually through Victoria."
