I stand there longer than planned, talking softly to the dead because grief and love both make strange habits feel rational. I tell her the apprenticeship program is thriving. The board still contains one idiot, though a useful one, exactly as predicted. Dolores has finally started dating a retired judge who wears pocket squares too confidently. Naomi thinks I need a vacation. I tell Margaret she would hate the current wallpaper trends.
And then, because some truths take years to become speakable, I say, “You saved me.”
The words vanish into the warm air.
But saying them matters.
Because she did.
Not in the fantasy sense of rescuing me from pain altogether.
She saved me in the more difficult way. By leaving evidence instead of consolation. By proving my instincts were sane. By putting tools in my hand and refusing to let sentiment be the last language spoken over betrayal.
As I turn to leave, I notice movement a little way down the path.
A man with a stroller.
For one disorienting second my heart misfires.
But it is not Ethan.