I don't elaborate. Don't oversell. He deserves space to react without being managed.
Henry doesn't argue. He doesn't question again.
He absorbs the information quietly, like he's recalculating.
"Okay," he says finally.
It's the most neutral okay I've ever heard.
I nod once, accepting it.
This is progress. Or at least not regression.
Henry goes back to his game.
I stay where I am, watching the light shift across his face, wondering if I've explained enough or too much or the wrong things entirely.
Later, after Henry goes to his room, the house settles into its nighttime quiet.
I replay the conversation, checking it for flaws the way I check contracts.
Everything was accurate. Controlled. Transparent enough.
Still, something nags at me.
The way Henry's expression shifted when I said Lindsay's name. The flicker of hope before he smoothed it over.
He wants this more than I expected.
That should make the decision easier. Instead, it makes the stakes feel higher.
My phone buzzes on the table beside me.
Evelyn again.
You'll need to meet with Lindsay. Tomorrow.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen.
Tomorrow.
No buffer. No time to prepare talking points. No chance to control the narrative.
Just immediacy.
I type back quickly.
Specifics?
Her response comes within seconds.
ERS office. 2 PM.
I set the phone down and lean back in my chair.
The house feels different tonight. Not emptier—but poised. Like it's waiting for something to shift.
I think about Lindsay in my office during those years she worked for me. How she never needed instruction twice.
