Her eyes settle on me again.
“You see that in him,” she says.
“Yes,” I say softly.
She nods once, satisfied. “That is why I worried when he was small. My children were raising their son very gently.”
I smile a little. “That doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”
“No,” she says. “But my mother believed comfort makes people forget how quickly the world can change.”
I think about Lucy, about the way we’re planning this weekend as if the world will always make room for small joys like road trips and arena lights. “And you didn’t want him to forget.”
“I wanted him ready,” she replies.
“For what?”
Her gaze drifts toward the window for a moment before returning. “For responsibility,” she says simply.
The word sits between us for a moment, heavy in the quiet of the room.
I wait.
Something about the way she said it makes it clear the sentence isn’t finished yet.
“My brother was named Elias,” she says finally.
I straighten a little in my chair.
“He was the oldest of us. Then Marta. Then me.”
Her voice doesn’t change, but the room feels different now, like a door just opened somewhere behind the walls.
“Our parents had land,” she continues. “And enough money to understand what was happening before most people allowed themselves to believe it.”
I don’t interrupt.
“They sent my sister and me away,” she says.
“Where?” I ask quietly.
“Switzerland.”
That makes immediate sense. Close. Neutral. The sort of place people with means could send children if they saw the storm coming early enough.
“Marta and I went to live with cousins outside Zürich,” she continues. “A small house near the lake. Clean air. Quiet streets. People who asked very few questions.”
Her hands remain folded in her lap.
“My brother refused to go.”
I don’t need to ask why.
“He was eighteen,” she says. “Old enough to think he could help.” The corner of her mouth lifts faintly. “He was not wrong.”
The air in my chest tightens.
“He stayed with our parents,” she continues. “And with the people who worked the estate.”
