“That’s not the same thing.”
Her voice wasn’t raised anymore. It was steady, which is somehow worse.
“I’m scared,” she admitted.
The words hit harder than anything else tonight.
“Of what?” I ask carefully.
“Of counting on you for everything.”
“I want you to.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
I fell silent.
“If I let you pay for Dad,” she continued, “if I let you own my company, if I let you become the reason my life works. What happens if you change your mind?”
“I will not.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.” The firmness in her voice pulls me up short. “No one can promise forever,” she said.
The sentence lands like a physical blow, because I know.
I know that better than anyone. I promised Elise forever. I promised safety. I promised to be there. And forever ended in a single phone call.
My jaw tightened. She saw it.
“You know that,” she says softly.
I swallowed. “I would not abandon you,” I said quietly.
“I believe you think that,” she replied. “But life changes people. Grief changes people. Circumstances change.”
She steps closer, not confrontational, but earnest.
“If I give up my independence completely and something shifts—if you wake up one day and realize this isn’t what you want—I’m the one who falls.”
The image came unbidden. Her van in winter. Her alone again.
My chest tightened painfully.
“I would never put you there,” I said.
“You can’t promise that.”
The repetition stripped my certainty.
She inhaled shakily. “I have feelings for you,” she says.
The words should steady me. Instead, they make this harder.
“I care about you. I might even—” She stopped herself.
