Chapter 8 - A Home With Two Keys
At twenty-nine weeks, Roman asked whether I would visit the mansion.
My stomach tightened immediately.
He heard the silence.
“You can say no.”
“Why?”
“To collect anything you want. And see the changes, if you’re interested.”
“What changes?”
“The ones I should have made before you left.”
I agreed on a Saturday afternoon.
June came with me.
Not as a witness Roman resented.
As someone I wanted beside me.
The limestone house looked almost exactly as I remembered.
Lake Michigan stretched beyond the windows, gray-blue beneath a pale sky.
Inside, the entrance sounded different.
Fewer footsteps.
No clipped voice asking where I intended to go after lunch.
Roman stood near the sitting room.
“Welcome,” he said.
It was an odd word for the house where I had lived four years.
Perhaps that was why it mattered.
He didn’t call it home.
He let me decide what it was.
Celeste’s office had been cleared.
The monitoring arrangements concerning me had been terminated and documented.
Staff had received clear instructions about privacy, consent, and whose directions they could follow.
The east wing remained empty.
No nursery waited to make my refusal seem cruel.
“No decorating?” I asked.
“I don’t know where the babies will live.”
The sentence hurt.
It was also true.
He led us to the library, using familiar landmarks and his cane when needed.
The furniture had been rearranged during my absence, but not to create the appearance that he could navigate without tools.
A tactile marker sat discreetly beside a thermostat.
His phone read a message aloud through an earpiece.
He had continued building his own skills instead of making my presence responsible for his independence.
“I’m taking infant-care classes,” he said.
“I know. You told me.”
“There’s something I’d like to show you.”
In a quiet room near the kitchen stood two practice dolls.
June pressed her lips together.
Roman sighed.
“You may laugh. Elias already has.”
“I wasn’t going to,” I said.
Then one doll emitted an indignant electronic cry.
I laughed.
Roman smiled and reached toward the sound.
He found the doll carefully, supporting its head.
His movements were practiced but not effortless.
They didn’t need to be.
He talked through the arrangement he had learned: consistent supplies, accessible labels, safe feeding procedures, support when it was needed.
“I won’t do everything alone,” he said.
“Neither will I.”
We looked toward each other.
For the first time, parenting sounded like work we might share rather than territory we would divide.
Before leaving, I went upstairs.
Our bedroom remained quiet.
My books were on the shelf.
My blue sweater lay folded in a drawer.
For months, I had imagined returning as a defeat.
Standing there, I understood that returning under different conditions could be another choice.
But I wasn’t ready.
Downstairs, I told him.
“I’m keeping my apartment.”
“All right.”
“I may keep it even if we reconcile.”
“All right.”
“You don’t have to agree instantly to everything.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“I’m not thrilled about the rent.”
I laughed.
Then he grew serious.
“But I don’t have to like every choice to respect your right to make it.”
On the drive back, June glanced at me.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.”
“I think I want him.”
She kept her eyes on the road.
“Wanting him was never the problem.”
“No.”
“What’s different?”
I watched the city pass.
“He’s learning to want a life I can leave.”
Two weeks later, Roman came to my apartment for dinner.
We burned the rice.
He told a terrible joke.
I kissed him beside the sink while rain tapped against the window.
When I stepped back, his hands remained lightly at my waist.
“Was that all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I rested my forehead against his.
May you like
Then I said the thing I had been afraid to want.
“Stay for dinner next Thursday too.”
