The next morning Carter came by. He looked uncomfortable the moment he saw the television still sitting on the lawn.
“I didn’t think it would move this fast,” he admitted.
“It didn’t move fast,” I said. “It finished.”
He sat at the kitchen table while I made pancakes.
“What you did is legally airtight,” he said. “Emotionally, it’s going to be ugly.”
I flipped a pancake. “I wasn’t asking for pretty.”
By afternoon Noah had already adapted. Kids do that better than adults. He claimed a corner of the living room as his own, built a blanket fort, and changed the Wi-Fi name to something ridiculous.
For a few hours, the house almost felt normal.
Then the gate camera buzzed.
Motion detected.
Daniel.
He stood alone outside. No bags. No Madison. No theatrics.
I opened the intercom.
He looked tired. Smaller somehow.
“I need to talk,” he said.
“About what?”
“The house.”
“It’s not yours anymore.”
“I know.”
That surprised me.
He swallowed and looked away before meeting the camera again.
“I came to understand,” he said.
That word didn’t sound natural coming from him.