Chapter eight
Arthur
Henry eats dinner without complaint, moving through the routine like it's muscle memory. I watch him out of habit more than concern, noting what he finishes and what he leaves behind.
There's a sense of contentment in nights like this. Predictability.
I've always believed that consistency is the best form of protection, especially for a child who's already lost one parent.
Still, I notice without fully examining it that Henry is quieter than usual. Not withdrawn. Just… inward.
I register it the way I register fluctuations in a market. Information I choose not to interpret.
After dinner, we move into the living room. Henry finished his homework earlier, so he was allowed to play video games until bedtime.
The structure holds.
For now.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me.
It's Evelyn.
She agreed to the match.
The message is brief. Professional. Completely insufficient for what it actually means.
Lindsay said yes.
I read the words three times, waiting for my reaction to clarify itself. Relief. Satisfaction. Apprehension. Something.
Instead, I feel the weight of what I can no longer delay.
I set the phone down and look across the room at Henry. He's focused on his game, controller gripped loosely in both hands, face lit by the screen.
"There might be a few changes coming up," I tell him, keeping my tone even.
Not dramatic. Just factual.
Henry looks up from what he's doing, attentive.
"What kind of changes?"
"Nothing specific yet," I say.
That's a lie—but one I've learned to justify. The details haven't been finalized. The timeline hasn't been set.
I'm buying time.
"This wouldn't change anything important," I add. "Your routine stays the same."
Henry nods once.
He accepts structure easily. That's always been true.
I let myself believe that acceptance means agreement.
A few minutes pass before Henry speaks again.
