“No.”
“Good.”
She closes the wardrobe. “That means you’re staying.”
I almost laugh. “You’ve deduced that from linen placement?”
“I’ve deduced that from everything.”
“Fair.”
She turns back to me. “Do you regret it?” Direct, as always.
“No,” I say.
The answer comes without hesitation. That surprises me. Not the truth of it. The speed.
Teresa watches me. Waiting.
“For accuracy,” I add, “I regret components.”
“Hmm.”
“The timing. The sequence. The fact that I had to become relevant before he chose correctly.”
“Yes.”
“The fact that my father is still dead.”
“Yes.”
“The fact that nothing in this house arrives without cost.”
“Yes.”
“But not this,” I say, placing my hand more firmly against my stomach. “Not this.”
“And not him?”
I hold her gaze. “No,” I say.
That one takes longer. Not because it isn’t true. Because it requires more precision.
“I regret what he did,” I continue. “I do not regret what we are building.”
Teresa nods. “That’s the distinction.”
“Yes.”
“It won’t get easier.”
“I don’t expect it to.”
“Good.”
She moves toward the door. Then pauses. “You’re still counting.”
I don’t even pretend to be confused. “Yes.”
