Henry will see that eventually.
Steven appears in the doorway, discreet as always.
"Shall I show Mrs. Dupree to her room?" he asks.
I nod.
"Yes. Thank you."
Lindsay glances at me once before following Steven upstairs.
She doesn't say goodnight.
Neither do I.
Later, when the house settles into quiet again, I hear Henry moving around his room.
Not upset enough to cry.
Not calm enough to relax.
The muffled sounds of drawers opening and closing. Footsteps. A soft thud that might be a pillow hitting the floor.
I stay where I am in my office, laptop open, emails stacking up the way they always do.
Work is reliable. Predictable. It doesn't require apologies or explanations.
I respond to three messages. Draft a memo. Review a contract that needs my signature by morning.
But my focus keeps slipping.
I think about Henry's face when I told him. The way his smile disappeared.
You could've told me.
I did tell him. I told him things were changing. That I was working with ERS. That someone might be joining our lives.
That should have been enough.
He's smart. He should have been able to extrapolate.
Except he's also ten.
That complicates the math.
And maybe logic isn't what he needed.
This is the cost of change, I remind myself.
Temporary discomfort in service of long-term stability.
I've made these calculations before—in business, in parenting, in every major decision that's shaped my life.
The math always works out.
Eventually.
Still, the house feels different now.
