She shakes her head, but the corner of her mouth lifts. “You know, when he called last month, he asked about you. Wanted to know if you were still in the city.”
“Of course he did.” I lean back in my chair. “It’s easier to check in from a distance.”
“Dorian—”
“Mom,” I interrupt softly. “He left when I was twelve. You’re the one who stayed. You’re the one who showed up to every game, every graduation, every damn broken heart. I tried to fix my relationship with him when I went to Portland, but he screwed it up like he always does. I don’t need him.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Maybe not. But you might need closure.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say. Some doors don’t close clean. They just stay cracked, cold air seeping through, no matter how many years go by.
When she finishes her coffee, I help her up, careful not to make her feel small. “Come on. Time for your meds.”
“Bossy,” she mutters, but she doesn’t resist.
I follow her down the hall, her slippers whispering against the wood floor. The house feels different since I redid it—brighter, more open. She says it feels like living inside a magazine now. I just wanted it to be safe.
She sits on the edge of the bed while I set out her morning pills, a glass of water beside them. She takes them one by one, then sighs, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re a good boy.”
“Man,” I correct gently.
She smirks without opening her eyes. “Still my boy.”
Her bed sits near the window, quilt folded neatly at the foot, family photos on the dresser: me at graduation, and a few faded Polaroids of summer barbecues and fishing trips.
“Get some rest,” I tell her, fluffing the pillows.
She settles in, her movements slower these days, but still stubbornly independent. “You’re good at this,” she says.
“At what?”
“Taking care of people.”
I chuckle. “That’s debatable.”
She smiles faintly, eyes already half-closed. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Always do,” I murmur. I tuck the blanket over her legs. “Try to rest. I’ll be back before lunch.”
“You and your meetings.” Her words slur slightly as the medication takes hold. “Tell your fancy boss hello.”
“Denzel’s not that fancy,” I say, smiling faintly. “He just likes to sound important.”
Her laugh follows me out of the room.
I close the door quietly and head to my office—a converted study at the back of the house overlooking the woods. My laptop hums to life, screen lighting up with unread emails and calendar reminders.
At nine sharp, my meeting with Denzel begins. His face appears in the video window, framed by the kind of sleek city office I used to live in every day.
“Morning, Dorian,” he says, his tone brisk but friendly. “How’s Fox Hollow treating you?”
“Snowy,” I say. “But good.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Denzel leans back, clasping his hands. “You’re settling in fine, then?”
“As much as I can. It’s quieter than Portland.”
He chuckles. “You’ll get used to it. Now, Marketing’s building a campaign for the town’s redevelopment efforts.”
