He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not. But you’re trying. That’s enough for now.”
In November, I finally moved into the penthouse.
Not full-time at first. I still kept Room 12 at the motel paid through December, just in case. But I brought my things. The quilt. The photograph. Daniel’s letters.
I hired a decorator, a woman named Patricia, who didn’t ask questions. She just listened when I said, “Simple. Comfortable. Nothing flashy.”
She filled the space with soft couches, warm rugs, bookshelves, lamps that made the rooms feel golden instead of cold.
It started to feel like a home.
I didn’t tell Robert. Not yet.
On Thanksgiving, I cooked dinner at Willow Street. Turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans. Robert brought wine. We sat at the table he bought secondhand, and he said grace for the first time since he was a child.
