“You should’ve called me sooner,” he says quietly.
You nod because there is no point pretending otherwise.
Michael steps inside, closes the door behind him, and glances toward the staircase. “Is he awake?” he asks. You tell him no, probably not yet. He studies you for another second, then says, “All right. Then we do this your way.”
That matters more than you expected.
Not because he came. Because he came without trying to take the script away from you. Daniel has spent years speaking over your fear, your judgment, your memory, your sense of timing. Michael standing in your hallway, furious and yet careful, feels like the first clean breath after too many years in a sealed room.
You lead him into the kitchen.
The table is small, scarred in one corner from a hot pan you set down too fast three Christmases ago. The morning light falls across it in pale stripes through the blinds. Michael looks around the room where you have made thousands of meals and absorbed hundreds of tiny humiliations and asks the question no one else ever asks first.
