Henry finishes packing and turns to us, beaming.
"That went really well," he says.
"It did," I agree.
Lindsay squeezes my hand. "You were amazing."
We walk back through the hallway together. Security falls into step behind us. The sequined bag catches light as Lindsay moves, absurd and perfect.
Henry talks the entire way to the car—about feedback he received, about ideas for his next project, about how Jenny said his model was cooler than hers.
I listen without interrupting. Lindsay responds with enthusiasm. The dynamic is easy. Balanced.
In the SUV, Henry sits between us, still talking, still glowing.
Looking at Henry's model, I can't help but think:
Life isn't something you build alone. It is much better when I stopped insisting on being the only load-bearing wall.
***
The controller vibrates in Henry's hands like it's alive. Lights flash across the television. Characters jump, spin, explode onscreen.
Lindsay cheers when something good happens, groans when something goes wrong, leans forward like her posture alone might influence the outcome.
I don't understand the rules. I don't understand the appeal. I especially don't understand why this particular pixelated creature keeps yelling when it loses. But Henry is all-out laughing, and Lindsay is laughing with him.
She lets him explain things, even when he does it badly.
I sit back in my chair and watch. This is not efficient. Not optimized. And yet, it works.
Henry glances over his shoulder. "Dad, you're supposed to be rooting for us."
"I am," I reply.
"For which team?"
I pause. "Yours."
That seems to satisfy him. He turns back to the screen, already absorbed again, confident I'm there.
Lindsay catches my eye and smiles. Small. Knowing.
My phone rings. Evelyn's name appears on the screen, steady and familiar. I answer without leaving the room. She doesn't waste time. She never does.
"This is a standard follow-up," she says. "From a contractual standpoint, your marriage no longer requires ERS oversight."
I watch Lindsay lean sideways, whisper something to Henry that makes him snort.
Evelyn continues, "We can begin discussing dissolution of the arrangement at your convenience."
I don't hesitate. "No," I say.
There's a pause on the line. Evelyn has always respected clarity. "I see," she says. "To be clear—this would be a personal decision, not a professional one."
"Yes," I reply. "Entirely personal."
Lindsay looks over then, reading my face with unnerving accuracy. "What's up?" she asks.
