Chapter six
Arthur
Dinner with Henry is usually quiet.
He eats carefully, like each bite needs to be accounted for. I watch him from across the table, noting the familiar way he lines up his fork and knife.
I ask about school. He answers with three sentences about a science project, delivered with the same tone I use in board meetings.
My chest tightens at the familiarity.
I ask about homework.
He nods, confirming completion without elaborating.
His responses are factual.
The conversation follows its usual pattern—question, answer, pause. Like a status report between colleagues rather than father and son.
I resist the urge to fill the gap with another prompt.
This is normal, I tell myself. Not every household needs noise to feel full.
Providing structure is a form of care. Some families thrive on chaos and constant chatter, but Henry has always been thoughtful, introspective.
Like his mother in that way. Catherine never needed to fill every silence with words either.
Still.
The space between us feels larger tonight. Maybe I'm just noticing it more.
When we move to the living room, Henry curls up on the corner of the expansive leather couch with a book about space exploration that he'd selected himself from the library.
Normally, he'd be playing a videogame, but I assigned him a 'special learning project', and encouraged him to get a book. Now he'll see it through.
His legs tuck beneath him, making him appear even smaller against the oversized furniture.
I take the chair opposite him, laptop closed for once, phone placed face down on the side table where I can't see the constant stream of notifications.
Present.
Or attempting to be.
I keep my hands folded so I don’t reach for the phone out of habit.
The silence settles over us both like a familiar blanket, filled only by the occasional whisper of a page turning and the distant hum of the mansion's climate control system.
I study him in the warm lamplight—the dark hair that falls across his forehead in the same stubborn wave Catherine's used to.
Seven years since she died.
Seven years of mornings and bedtimes and school conferences. Seven years of learning how to parent alone while running a company that requires most of my attention.
I've done it well, by every metric I know how to measure.
Henry is healthy. Safe. Educated at the best schools. He has structure and stability and every resource a child could need.
But watching him now—small and self-contained on that oversized couch—I understand what the staff has been trying to tell me.
