Later, Henry wanders into the kitchen like he owns it. He stops short when he sees all three of us, the devices, the quiet intensity.
"What's going on?" he asks.
"Logistics," I say. "Nothing for you to worry about."
Henry accepts that for about three seconds. Then he angles toward Lindsay, and asks her what she's doing.
She explains in simple terms—too many messages, too much noise, so they're putting up a filter.
Henry nods like that makes sense in his world. Then he says, casual, like it's unrelated, "Dad, can you buy me a ticket to CAMICon?"
The request comes out of nowhere.
I don't want to discuss it. I don't want to schedule it. I don't want to add chaos to a life I'm trying to stabilize.
"We'll see," I reply.
It ends the conversation.
Henry shrugs, satisfied, already moving on. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out an apple, then disappears back toward his room.
Lindsay's eyes flick to mine once Henry leaves. "I'm planning on going to CAMICon. I could take him?"
The offer surprises me. Lindsay has always been generous, but this offer implies she's planning ahead. Thinking about next week, next month. As if this arrangement might actually last.
“There are too many variables,” I say. “I don’t suggest either of you go.”
Steven's gaze flicks to mine, quick and unreadable.
Lindsay doesn't argue, but I see the brief flash of determination cross her face before she turns back to her now-quiet devices.
I tell myself Henry will forget. That by next week, CAMICon will be replaced by some other interest, some other request. Children's attention spans are mercifully short.
But as Lindsay's phone stays quiet for the first time in days, I realize something else is happening too—
This agreement is working.
And more smoothly than I expected.
The filters. The management. The structure. All doing exactly what they're supposed to do: Creating space. Reducing noise. Making Lindsay's life more navigable.
And if it keeps working, I'm going to have to face the one risk I can't outsource.
Her.
Lindsay looks at me, her expression open in a way that makes me shift my weight.
I watch her testing the new filters on her phone, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she discovers how much control she suddenly has.
She catches me looking and lifts one eyebrow slightly. The gesture is disarming. "What?"
"Nothing," I say, turning away. "I have work to finish."
I retreat to my office, close the door, and try to focus on the reports waiting in my inbox. But my mind keeps circling back to the kitchen. To Lindsay in that ridiculous hoodie, her relief when the notifications stopped, her offer to take Henry to CAMICon.
I tell myself this is temporary. That we're still figuring out parameters. That marriage is a contract, not an invasion.
But some part of me knows better.
