But I keep mine internal because I’m supposed to be the adult here.
The penthouse is ...massive.
Minimalistic.
Sophisticated in a cold, expensive way that makes me want to apologize for breathing near it.
The suited man steps forward, hand extended.“Ms.Cavanagh.I’m Austin Hanley.Please, come in.”
He ushers us inside.
Cream walls.Dark wood.Windows stretching from the floor to the ceiling, offering an endless view of Seattle—gray skies, tall buildings, the faint shimmer of water in the distance.
“This is ...”Mila spreads her arms like she’s presenting a game show prize.“Fancy squared.”
“It’s temporary,” I remind her, stepping in cautiously, like the floor might judge my scuffed sneakers and swallow me out of spite.
“You keep saying that word,” she replies, “and now it’s boring.”
“I want to make sure you’re aware that we’re here long enough to sort through her things, sign whatever documents they throw at us, and figure out legal stuff.Then we go.”
I pitch it in my very best I-am-a-capable-adult tone—as if the lawyer needs reassurance that I’m in charge of something.
I am.
Technically.
She just sounds too old, too wise, too everything.It was funny in other countries, endearing even.But here?With adults in suits watching?Now I feel like I have to perform parenthood at a higher difficulty level, and I hate it.
I also don’t want the lawyer thinking I’m needy—or worse, here to claim anything.I’m not.I’ll do what’s asked and go.
Though ...it wouldn’t hurt if the process took long enough for me to find my next project.Or two.I’d hate it if I have to fly to Arizona to stay with Mom and her current boyfriend.
Mila drifts forward, fingertips grazing the marble kitchen counters like she’s touching forbidden artifacts.“Your aunt lived here?”
“I guess so.”
To be honest, it doesn’t match the Lina I knew.Back then, she felt like sunlight—barefoot, dancing, laughing at her own jokes.She collected music and impulsive decisions, not sleek furniture that cost more than my old car.
We wander through the rooms.
Everything is spotless, curated like things in a museum, and ...untouched.
This is emotionally vacant, like a magazine spread waiting for real life to move in but it never did.
It hits deeper than I expect:
This was her world.
A world I never stepped into, one she never shared.
And now I’m here without her, walking through rooms she lived in, trying to connect pieces of a woman I used to adore and a stranger she later became.I miss her.I miss the version of her who braided my hair, and taught me how to whistle, and danced with abandon to ABBA in our living room.I miss the goodbye she never gave me.The time we no longer have to fix whatever broke between us.
Life sucks like that—stealing people when you’re still mid-sentence with them.
Behind us, Mr.Hanley clears his throat gently—the sound snapping me back to the present.“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, “we can go over the paperwork.”
Ugh.Paperwork.With legal jargon, I’ll pretend to understand and decisions I’ll be expected to make.
