“I can’t.”
“You look deranged.”
“I don’t care.”
I tried to scowl. The baby fluttered at the sound of his voice, which was a betrayal I was going to bring up with my son later.
His grin faded into something more serious. “You’ll stay at the estate. There’s more than enough room, and I want you close in case you need anything.”
“I’m not moving into your house, Finneas.”
“It’s not about us. It’s about the baby. The estate has security, space, staff if you need help. Getting your own place means finding somewhere, setting it up, doing everything alone.”
“I’ve been doing everything alone for months. I’m good at it.”
“I know you are. That’s not what I’m saying.”
I chewed on my lip. He wasn’t wrong about the logistics. Apartment hunting while five months pregnant in a city I’d fled sounded exhausting, and the estate was massive enough that we could live there without being on top of each other.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll stay. For now. But this isn’t permanent. If I want my own place later, I’m getting one, and you don’t get a say in that.”
“Okay.”
“And if it’s not working, if living there feels wrong for any reason, I leave. No arguments, no guilt, no twelve hours on a lawn.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “No lawn sitting. Got it.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. Whatever you need, Andrea. Your terms.”
My terms. I’d hold him to that.
Saying goodbye to Whitebrook was harder than I expected.
I told Grandma that evening over tea. She was quiet while I explained, stirring her cup, and I braced myself for the pushback.
“Good,” she said.
“Good?”
“You can’t raise a baby in a town where his father’s parked outside in a rental car. Go home. Build something. If it doesn’t work, this house isn’t going anywhere.”
That was Grandma. No drama, no guilt. Just the truth, served with chamomile.
I packed my room while she hovered in the doorway pretending she wasn’t crying. I folded clothes into the same suitcases I’d arrived with, took the books off the nightstand, stripped the bed. The quilt my mother sewed I left on the mattress. I ran my hand over the stitching before I pulled away because it belonged in this house, not in Atlanta.
“Grandma, I’m not dying. I’m moving back to Atlanta. You’ve been there.”
“I know.” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I just liked having you home.”
“Finneas said he’d fly you out whenever you want. Monthly, if you want. He’s annoyingly serious about it.”
“Good. I’ll hold him to it.”
We hugged in the doorway. I breathed in lavender, garden soil, the smell that had been home since I was fifteen.
The therapy group goodbye was chaos. Adela crushed me so hard my ribs creaked. “If he screws up again, call me. I will drive to Atlanta.”
