Chapter thirty
Arthur
Lindsay hasn't come down for breakfast. I know this because I asked, casually, and the answer came back just as casually. She's in her room. No follow-up. No concern.
Exactly the level of distance I usually prefer.
I tell myself this is good. Space prevents escalation. Allows perspective. Keeps things from turning emotional when they don't need to. I've always believed proximity complicates things.
I'm working from home today. I go through my morning routine. Coffee. Emails. A call I don't need to be on but stay on anyway.
Midafternoon, I hear movement upstairs. Not footsteps pacing. Not doors slamming. Rummaging. Drawers opening and closing. Fabric shifting. Something clatters, then a soft curse follows.
I don't ask what she's doing. I don't ask how she's feeling.
I tell myself that this is what we needed—space.
And if I'm relieved by it, that's just proof that stepping back was the right call. That distance restores equilibrium.
Still, I catalog the sounds without meaning to. The rhythm of them. Purposeful. Focused. Not distressed. She's busy. Busy people don't spiral. Busy people don't need reassurance.
Henry comes home from school in a decent mood. We go over homework. Talk about a science quiz. He mentions something about a character he likes, some fandom detail I don't fully track. I nod where appropriate.
I'm good at nodding.
He asks where Lindsay is.
"In her room," I say. Neutral. Informational.
"Oh," he replies. "Will she come to the school fundraiser this afternoon?"
"I don't think so."
He accepts that answer faster than I expect. Goes back to his tablet.
I feel something close to gratitude. Not because Lindsay is gone—but because nothing is being asked of me.
No emotional calibration. No apology required.
This is manageable. This is safe.
***
The fundraiser is louder than I expect.
Not chaotic—organized chaos. Pop-up tents arranged in neat rows, tables bowing under baked goods wrapped in cellophane, banners taped slightly crooked overhead. Sugar, popcorn, fried dough. The air hums with noise.
Security fans out instinctively. Visible but not intrusive. Parents notice them, then quickly decide not to.
Henry doesn’t notice at all.
“Can I go look at the games?” he asks, already shifting his weight forward.
“Yes,” I say. “Stay where I can see you.”
He nods once and disappears into the crowd like he’s done this a hundred times.
I remain where I am.
