He's absorbed more of my communication style than I realized.
"Maybe," I reply.
The word feels inadequate even as I say it.
Like I'm simplifying something that refuses to be simple, compressing careful consideration into a single syllable that explains nothing.
It hangs in the air between us, neither commitment nor denial.
He shakes his head once, like he expected that answer.
Then Henry turns and looks at me and I see something in his expression. Something that wasn't there moments ago.
"Is this because you're lonely?" he asks.
The question is steady. Direct. No tears. No dramatics. No attempt to soften the edges or dance around implications.
Just Henry, meeting me where I've always met him—in facts.
I open my mouth and realize for the second time in as many days that I don't have an answer ready.
The silence stretches, filled only by the relentless ticking of the clock, each second marking my inability to provide the kind of immediate, decisive response I've built my reputation on.
"I'm not sure what I want or what I need," I admit finally, my throat tightening around the words.
Uncertainty isn't something I typically voice, especially not to Henry.
"But something is missing. And I think we need someone to fill that gap."
Henry tilts his head slightly, studying me with that unnerving ability he inherited from both his parents.
He's reading between the lines I didn't know I was writing.
"Sounds to me like you're lonely."
He's not wrong.
The conversation shifts after that.
Henry picks up his book again, returning to whatever world exists on those pages. I stay in my chair, laptop still closed, trying to process what just happened.
My ten-year-old son just gave me relationship advice.
When bedtime comes, Henry goes through his routine with the same careful precision he brings to everything. Teeth brushed. Pajamas on. Door cracked exactly three inches.
I stand in the hallway after he's settled, listening to the silence of the house.
Fourteen thousand square feet, and it feels empty.
I rub a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted.
I pull out my phone and stare at the message thread with Evelyn Sterling.
Assessment complete. We'll begin evaluating matches within forty-eight hours.
I should feel relieved. ERS is very productive.
Instead, I've set something in motion that doesn't answer directly to me.
And control has been my primary currency for seven years.
