“It’s not dumb,” I reply.
That earns me a smile.
We walk back toward the car while he talks about which games were rigged and which ones weren’t. He mentions the girl with the braids again—still without naming her, still without making it important.
I listen. I always do.
The fundraiser went well.
Nothing went wrong.
Henry is happy.
And yet—
As I close the car door and the noise fades behind us, I’m aware of the absence beside me in a way I can’t rationalize away.
***
Later, I pass her door on the way to my office. It's cracked open just enough for light to spill into the hallway. I glimpse color inside—fabric draped over the back of a chair. Something sparkly catching the light. Tape. Scissors. A mess that looks intentional.
A costume. For that convention Henry mentioned. The one she lit up about.
I move on. Avoidance has always been a strength of mine.
The house settles into its usual quiet. Lindsay doesn't come down for dinner. A tray is sent upstairs. I don't comment. I don't ask if she liked it. I don't check whether the tray comes back empty.
I tell myself we're both cooling off. That this is temporary. That things will normalize once the emotional static clears.
I should go downstairs. I should say something. I should acknowledge what I did.
I stay where I am instead.
Control is stability. Distance is safety.
But as the sounds from the kitchen fade and the house goes silent, I wonder whether I've confused control with isolation.
And whether safety is worth what it's costing me.
