He's not wrong.
I made the calculation. Bringing Henry to the ceremony would have complicated things. Added emotional variables I couldn't control. Better to present it as fait accompli. Stable. Decided.
That logic held an hour ago.
Now, standing in front of Henry, explaining it to him, my excuses feel thinner.
Henry turns to Lindsay and schools his features with visible effort.
Very impressive for a ten-year-old.
"Welcome to the family, I guess," he says.
His tone is polite. Hollow.
Lindsay's smile falters.
"Thank you, Henry."
Henry excuses himself and disappears down the hall without raising his voice.
No door slam. No tears.
Just absence.
I tell myself this is fine.
That he needs time.
That I handled it as well as anyone could have.
Children adapt. He's resilient. He always has been.
Lindsay remains where she is, giving me space.
She stays on the other side of the room, hands folded in front of her, watching the hallway where Henry disappeared.
"That went badly," she says quietly.
"He'll adjust."
"Arthur—"
"He will."
My tone is sharper than I intend.
Lindsay doesn't flinch, but she stops talking.
Good, I tell myself.
This is why structure matters. This is what it's for.
Emotion needs boundaries. Decisions should be made from logic, not impulse.
Whatever this is between Lindsay and me—it's contained. Defined. Contractual.
I made the right choice.
