"Does this have anything to do with the matchmaking thing?" he asks.
The question isn't accusatory. It's practical. Like he's been assembling information and has reached a reasonable conclusion.
I hadn't realized how closely he'd been paying attention, which is on me.
"Yes," I say.
Honesty is less risky than evasion. Children notice gaps in logic faster than adults.
His shoulders stiffen.
"I don't want a stranger in our house," he says. "Or in our lives."
That's the first real resistance.
I recognize it as a boundary, not a tantrum.
"This isn't about a stranger," I say, defaulting to reassurance instead of inquiry. "It's about someone we already know. Someone I trust."
That gives him pause.
Not relief. Consideration.
Henry turns that over quietly, then looks up at me again.
"Who?" he asks.
I don't answer immediately.
Not because I'm conflicted—but because I'm careful.
Once a name is spoken, there’s no way to pretend this is theoretical.
"You like Lindsay, don't you?" I say instead.
His reaction is immediate and unguarded.
His eyes brighten, posture lifting.
"Lindsay?" he asks. "She's coming back to work?"
I hesitate. Evelyn made it very clear.
"No."
The word comes out too quickly.
"She's not going to be my employee."
Henry frowns, confused now. Processing.
"Then what—"
"I'm not sure," I say. "But she might be spending more time with us. In a different capacity."
I hate how vague that sounds. How insufficient.
Henry stares at me, piecing it together.
