"Dad's working?" he asks, glancing toward the closed study door.
"Important calls," I say lightly. "Are you hungry?"
He grins—a real smile that makes his whole face light up. "I can't wait."
We eat at the kitchen island, just the two of us, leaning against the island. Henry tells me about school. About how Jenny got paired with him and didn't even roll her eyes this time.
I listen. I ask questions. I pretend.
"Dad's been weird lately," Henry says suddenly, fork paused mid-air.
I keep my face neutral. "Weird how?"
He shrugs one shoulder, thinking. "Quiet. More quiet than usual." He takes another bite, chews thoughtfully.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. "Work stuff, probably."
Henry shakes his head. "No. It's different."
I nudge his plate. "Eat your vegetables too."
Henry makes a face but obeys. "The lasagna's really good," he says, mouth full. "You should make it every week."
My chest tightens. "Thank you."
After dinner, after Henry's homework, after he disappears into his room, I find myself drifting through the house again. Restless. Unsure where to land.
Arthur's study door is still closed.
I pause outside it, hand raised to knock, then let it fall back to my side.
I made dinner and you hurt my feelings by not eating it?I'm trying to belong here and you keep reminding me I don't?I think I might be falling in love with you and your silence made me feel two inches tall?
I walk away before I can change my mind.
The house settles into nighttime quiet. Lights dim. Staff move efficiently through final tasks before disappearing into their own quarters. I shower, brush my teeth, change into pajamas that still feel new—like I'm playing dress-up in someone else's life.
When I climb into bed, my phone is waiting on the nightstand. I check it out of habit.
A text from my mom.
A notification from Quinn about tomorrow's schedule.
Nothing from Arthur.
I set the phone face-down, turn off the lamp, and lie in the dark. The ceiling above me is blank and endless.
You’re optional.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Force the thought away. Replace it with something kinder:He's afraid.
Not of me, specifically. But of this. Of what happens when you let someone new into your life. When you create space for them to matter. When you acknowledge that caring makes you vulnerable.
I roll onto my side, pulling the covers tighter.
In the morning, I'll try again.
Sleep comes slowly, reluctantly.
And somewhere between awake and dreaming, a thought surfaces—quiet, persistent, impossible to ignore:
If I'm nothing to them—what am I doing here?
