He stood on the sidewalk looking at the sign as if he had found a house he used to live in but no longer had the key to.
Jenna saw him and muttered, “Say the word and I’ll lock the door.”
“No,” I said. “It’s fine.”
Daniel entered carefully.
He looked older. Not destroyed, not redeemed. Just smaller without the lies that had inflated him.
Noah was in the back with Caroline showing her a spaceship drawing. I was grateful.
Daniel glanced around at the gowns, the machines, the flowers, the photographs from the opening.
“You did it,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I saw the article in the local paper.”
Of course he had.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
He touched the edge of a display table, then seemed to remember he had no right to touch anything here.
“I’m working now,” he said. “Nothing impressive. Logistics.”
“That’s good.”
“I’ve been going to counseling.”
“That’s also good.”
He swallowed.
“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.”
I said nothing.
“But I need you to know I understand more now. What I did. How sick it was. I kept telling myself I was creating a better future, and then one day the future had no room for the people who actually loved me.”
The old me would have taken that sentence and built a bridge from it.
The woman I had become simply let it stand on its own.
“I’m glad you understand.”
He looked at me with painful hope.
