He had habits built over decades. So did I. He still expected, at first, that domestic life would resume around him without much instruction. I still stiffened whenever he walked into a room unexpectedly, waiting for some version of retreat or deflection. Sometimes we had excellent dinners and terrible breakfasts. Sometimes the reverse. Sometimes he apologized clumsily for things so old I’d forgotten I was still carrying them. Sometimes he said nothing for too long and I felt seventeen again, standing in the kitchen after my mother died, trying to decide whether grief counted as disruption.
But he stayed.
That mattered.
He met with Adrien and his own counsel. He corrected timelines. He signed supplemental statements. He admitted, in writing, that I had raised questions earlier than he wanted to hear them. That sentence alone was worth a year of lesser reconciliation.
One evening in late July, about a month after the gala, we sat on the terrace at sunset with the Pacific going silver under a marine layer and he said, without preamble, “Your mother used to say you were the one who’d see the whole board.”
I looked at him.