"No."
My palm lands on the desk.
"If you were careful, you would have consulted me first. You would have arranged proper security. You would have had protocols in place for what happens if you get separated."
Lindsay's jaw tightens. "I'm not one of your employees anymore, Arthur. You don't get to dictate my every move."
"This isn't about your independence," I say. "This is about my son's safety."
"He was safe with me!"
"He wasn't," I reply immediately. "That's the point. You put him in an environment you couldn't control, without the proper support, and then you lost track of him."
Lindsay crosses her arms, defensive now. "You make everything about risk and management instead of actually living. You're controlling. This is exactly what my mother was talking about."
The mention of the podcast hits like a slap. I go very still, anger hardening into something colder, more resolved.
"This is exactly why I didn't want this," I say, the words sharp and unfiltered now. "Why this was a mistake."
Her breath catches.
I see it—and push anyway.
"You don't understand the world you're in," I continue. "You don't understand how fast things go wrong. I should never have agreed to this arrangement. I should have known better."
Lindsay goes very still. "You mean me," she says quietly. "You should've known better than to choose me."
"That's not—"
"And now you're saying I'm the problem," she cuts in.
I don't correct her.
The silence stretches, heavy with implications neither of us wants to voice. I'm too angry to backtrack. Too furiousto soften the blow. Everything I've worked for—every careful structure I've built to keep Henry safe—feels threatened by her impulsiveness.
"You asked for me," she says, voice shaking now but steady underneath it. "From the beginning. You don't get to throw that in my face when I don't perform the way you want."
"I'm his father," I say. "That responsibility outweighs—"
"Everything?" she finishes. "I get it. I just thought—" She stops herself, shaking her head. "Nevermind."
The fight drains out of her, replaced by a quiet certainty that unsettles me more than her anger did.
"I won't be a bother for you anymore," she says.
She turns and walks out. The door closes softly behind her.
I stand there, the echo of it lingering in the air.
Part of me wants to follow her. To explain. To make her understand that this isn't about her, it's about keeping everyone safe. That the structure matters. That control matters.
But I don't.
I stay exactly where I am.
This is necessary.
Removing the complication will restore order.
I tell myself this is what peace feels like. What clear boundaries create.
I tell myself I didn't want her to stay.
But as I stand alone in my perfectly ordered house, watching the night settle over grounds too large for two people, I realize—
I'm lying to myself.
