“She was...” The words stick. Christ, I don’t even know where to start.
Finn tilts his head to look at me, waiting.
I clear my throat. “She was kind,” I manage finally. It comes out rough, too small a word for the whole of her, but it’s all I can give him right now. “A good mum. Why are you asking, lad?”
He shrugs. “Just wondering.”
Just wondering?Finn doesn’t “just wonder” about his mum. Not after four years of carefully not asking, of learning that these conversations make his old man go quiet and distant.
“Finn, what’s brought this on? Have you been thinking about Mum today?”
Another shrug. “Maybe.”
“Has someone been talking to you about her?”
His eyes dart away, a dead giveaway. “No.”
“Finn.”
“Well . . . maybe a bit.”
The pieces click into place, and my jaw tightens. “Blair.”
He nods reluctantly. Of course it was Blair. I’d decided to keep her at arm’s length, to be polite and professional. And yet here she is, somehow getting under my skin anyway by crossing lines I thought were bloody obvious.
“What exactly did Blair say to you?”
I give one sharp knock but don’t wait for an answer. Too wound up for politeness. I push open the door to the granny flat and find Blair at the little table, notebook open, a mug of tea steaming beside her.
She looks up, startled. At least she’s properly dressed for once—jeans and a soft blue jumper that brings out her eyes. Not that I notice. Not really.
“Lachlan! I?—”
“We need to talk.” My voice comes out harder than I intend, but I don’t soften it. “About what happened today with Finn.”
She closes her notebook slowly, buying herself time. “If this is about the photos, I can explain?—”
“Explain what? That you went through my personal things? You had no right.”
“I didn’t go through anything!” She stands, colour rising in her cheeks. “Finn wanted to see pictures of his mom. He got the album out himself, and I?—”
“You should’ve told him to put it back. Said it was something for him and his father to do together.”
“I tried! But he looked so sad, and?—”
“It wasn’t your call to make, Blair.” I’m pacing now, heat rising under my skin, the small space feeling even smaller. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for my son. That’s my job.”
For a long beat she just looks at me. Something hardens in her eyes, and her apologetic expression slips away. What replaces it is sharper.
“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I should’ve handled it differently. But Lachlan, would it really be the worst thing to have a few photos and mementoes of Finn’s mom in the house? Or to tell him a story now and then about when his mom was alive?”
“That’s not?—”
“Finn barely knows anything about her,” she pushes on, her voice gaining strength. “And the only way he will is ifyoutell him. Stories matter, Lachlan. Not just the ones in books. The ones we share about the people we love. Yes, she’s gone, and that’s awful, but that doesn’t mean you can never talk about her.”
“I’m trying to protect him,” I snap.
Her reply slices clean through me. “Are you really protecting Finn? Or just yourself?”
