My mother adored him.
My father interrogated him over dinner.
My nephew stole his phone.
And Graham, who used to be terrified of saying the wrong thing in an elevator, somehow managed to charm my entire family with about twelve words of Portuguese.
We still hadn’t decided where we’d settle.
But we were finally talking honestly about it.
During that visit, Natalie also called with an update.
The financial investigation into Celia and HarborPoint was continuing. The hospital had corrected the records falsely attributed to me and was pursuing recovery of the improper payments.
Celia no longer controlled anybody’s career.
I no longer needed her permission to build mine.
One warm São Paulo evening, Graham and I stood on my parents’ balcony while traffic hummed below us.
He slipped his hand into mine.
“Do you miss Milwaukee?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you want to go back?”
