Dried it.
Then placed it back beside the Labrador’s water dish.
The dog looked up at him.
Ryan scratched behind its ears.
“This was always yours.”
Martha watched from the doorway.
Her eyes filled.
They left together.
No dramatic announcement.
No threats.
No applause.
Ryan simply walked out beside his mother.
That night, he stayed in Martha’s modest townhouse.
The same place where he had grown up after Thomas died.
His childhood room had become a sewing room years earlier.
Martha made tea.
Ryan sat at the kitchen table holding his father’s letter.
For nearly an hour, he said nothing.
Then:
“I let her do that to you.”
Martha looked at him.
“No.”
“I hesitated.”
“Yes.”
His face tightened.
“You noticed.”
“I did.”
“I should have defended you immediately.”
“Yes.”
He looked surprised by her honesty.
Martha sat across from him.
“You don’t need me to lie so you can feel better.”
Ryan nodded slowly.
“I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“Of losing the job.”
“I know.”
“The house.”
“Yes.”
“The life.”
Martha looked around her small kitchen.
Then smiled faintly.
“And what exactly did losing yourself cost?”
Ryan lowered his eyes.
More.
He understood.
“I’m sorry.”
Martha studied him.
Not searching for perfect words.
For truth.
“I know.”
“Do you forgive me?”
She took a breath.
“I love you.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
Ryan almost smiled sadly.
Martha continued.
“Forgiveness is probably going to look like watching what you do next.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
The separation from Natalie began the following week.
Ryan moved into an apartment.
Not the mansion.
Not Martha’s house.
Somewhere neutral.
Natalie in
