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There’s already a wide worktable beneath the bay window, positioned where the afternoon light is best. The sewing machine Mathias sent sits in the middle.

Kamden has used it every day.

He spent the first evening just reading the manual, then he practiced stitches on scrap fabric, then buttonholes, then decorative embroidery that took close to an hour and produced one perfect little flower he carried into the living room like he had discovered penicillin.

I told him the flower was perfect. He beamed, clutching that little scrap of fabric like it was a winning lottery ticket, and the pride didn’t leave his face for a solid hour. He practically floated through the house.

We’ve mapped out the room now. One side is designated for sewing—the machine humming under the window, a serger to come eventually, a wide cutting table, a dress form waiting to be padded to his measurements. Shelving will hold bolts of fabric; racks will organize thread by color.

The other side will be his play area. A thick, cream-colored rug he can sink his toes into. Floor cushions in muted patterns. Deep drawers for craft supplies, stacks of coloring books, and a low wooden shelf meant for Bear and whatever other plush strays end up here.

He was very clear about Rabbit not being a part of that. “She doesn’t go on a shelf.” Fine. Rabbit can continue her reign of terror from the floor, the bed, the top of the fucking refrigerator—wherever.

We mounted a corkboard on the wall yesterday. His university acceptance letter is right in the center, and the actual enrollment confirmation is beside it now.

Getting him enrolled was both easier and harder than I expected.

Easier because the school was more than happy to accept a scholarship student who had already been admitted and merely needed the administrative side untangled.

Harder because every new page made Kamden tense, like someone was about to tell him there had been a mistake.

Residency information, financial aid qualification, student ID, course planning, health forms, emergency contacts.

That one nearly fucking killed me.

Kamden stared at the blank field for maybe twenty seconds, then typed my name. In the “Relationship?” box, he entered “Partner.”

I didn’t say anything because if I had, there was a legitimate possibility I’d start crying in front of a nineteen-year-old and never recover my reputation.

His classes will begin in a few months, since he’ll have to wait until fall to join the next freshman class. In the meantime, we found a local seamstress who holds classes in her free time.

The picture frame he made for me at the safe house sits on the dresser in our bedroom.

I fucking love it.

And we finally took a picture worthy of it—Kamden tucked against my side on the front porch, one arm around my waist, sunlight catching his hair until the blond looked almost white around the edges. He’s smiling at the camera, but I’m not. I’m looking at him.

There’s something else new here, in the living room, something a bit quieter.

A solid walnut shelf, with John’s funeral flag in the center.

The old display case it was in was fucked from when Sherry had apparently thrown it out during one of her rages years ago.

Yep.

Actually thrown it out.

Little Kamden had waited until she left for a bar, climbed into the outside trash bin, dug it back out, cleaned the case as best he could, and hid it in the back of his closet where she wouldn’t see it.

I had to walk away when he told me. I was fucking furious.

Sherry’s alive because Kamden gets to decide what happens with her, and I intend to maintain that decision no matter how frequently she tempts me from afar.

So I walked outside, stood on the porch, and lit a cigarette, the smoke burning my throat as I stared at the fence line until my pulse slowed. I stubbed it out on the railing, came back inside smelling of ash and resolve, and went online to find the best damn display case I could get my hands on.

Solid walnut, not that particleboard shit. UV-protective glass so the colors won’t ever fade. Acid-free backing. Brass hinges that won’t corrode if the house ever floods.

When it arrived, Kamden watched me transfer the folded flag like we were handling something sacred.