Christmas was ten days away.
My flight to Brazil was booked.
The hospital had approved my participation in its overseas remote-work pilot, subject to the final employment and tax arrangements.
I could spend several months near my family without immediately giving up the career I’d built.
It was everything I’d wanted.
Except Graham complicated things.
In a good way.
An inconvenient, terrifying, wonderful way.
“My mother wants me home longer,” I told him. “Maybe through March.”
He folded another sweater.
“I know.”
“And I might decide to stay.”
He stopped folding.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Renata, I want to be with you. Here, there, wherever we can make it work.”
I stared at him.
“That’s different from telling me you support my decision.”
“I know.”
“What changed?”
He reached into his jacket.
And pulled out a passport.
A new one.
I looked at the photograph.
