After he left, the house felt too large. I moved through the rooms in slow circles, touching folded blankets, adjusting nothing, drinking tea I forgot to finish. By afternoon I had half-convinced myself I was being ridiculous. By evening I had reorganized a cabinet that did not need organizing and texted Ethan three times about things that could have waited until he returned.
He responded to each message almost immediately.
Boarded.
Landed.
Miss you.
Eat something.
Send bump picture.
I did. He sent back a heart, then: Tell him I’m negotiating under protest because he’s due in a month and I dislike drama before deadlines.
That was Ethan—competence with a dry edge, tenderness hidden inside practical language.
The next day my mother called and asked whether I could stop by their house “for ten minutes” to bring some estate paperwork she and my father needed reviewed.
“There’s email,” I said.
“There is also family,” she replied, already annoyed. “Your father hates discussing legal matters over email.”
I nearly refused. I should have. But old habits are muscular things. My parents still knew exactly which strings to pull, and one of mine had always been obligation dressed as decency.