I sat at the dining table with a cold cup of coffee, turning everything over in my mind until noon while Rachel made breakfast for Mia. Then I texted him: “Can I come by this afternoon? I need us to finish our conversation.”
He replied within a minute. “Yes. Please.”
I was going to have to come back.
***
That afternoon, I sat opposite Harold in his living room, my hands cold in my lap. I forced myself to ask about what he’d left unsaid that morning.
“The tattoo wasn’t only about Mike, was it?”
He didn’t respond.
“I’ve noticed the way you look at us, Harold. I heard Benjamin at the party. The second-floor rebuild. That’s for Mia and me, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at us.”
His shoulders curled inward.
When he finally answered, his voice was quiet.
“Somewhere this year, it stopped being just about Mike. I started picturing it. A room for Mia. A life. I never said anything. But I was subconsciously setting the table for it.”
