I sit there longer than necessary, watching my son work.
This isn't about replacement, I tell myself. It's about adjustment. Change.
Lindsay's presence creates space for Henry to explore interests I never encouraged.
That's good.
That's one of the things I wanted when I arranged this.
Still, the thought settles uncomfortably in my chest.
Henry finishes a line and tilts his head, examining his work critically. It's the same expression I see in the mirror when I review contracts.
He got that from me.
But everything else—the ease, the openness, the willingness to let someone in—that's not something I taught him.
"Henry."
He looks up finally. Waiting.
I hesitate.
I want to ask him something real. Something that matters. But I don't know what question to ask that won't sound like an audit.
"Never mind," I say. "Keep working. It looks good."
"Thanks."
He returns to the drawing. I stand, pushing the chair back carefully.
As I leave the kitchen, I hear his pencil resume its rhythm. Steady. Certain.
Content without me.
