“Some,” I admitted.
Owen put both arms around my waist. Samuel joined more slowly, leaning against my side without looking up. I held them there, breathing in shampoo and toothpaste and the faint scent of laundry detergent.
Whatever the note meant, whatever Adrian had hidden, this was still the center of my life.
Not papers. Not shares. Not a company built from an old dream.
Them.
At school drop-off, the sky was pale and washed clean from the rain. Parents moved through the loop with coffee cups and distracted waves. Everything looked ordinary enough to hurt.
Samuel unbuckled but lingered.
“Dad texted me last night,” he said.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “What did he say?”
“He said he hoped I had a good day.”
That should have relieved me. Instead, it reminded me how easily small, gentle words could sit beside larger secrets.
“That’s okay,” I said. “You can answer him.”
Owen leaned forward between the seats. “Are you and Dad going to be mad forever?”
I turned off the engine.
“No,” I said carefully. “Being hurt and being mad are not the same as forever. Adults can be upset and still choose to do better.”
Samuel looked skeptical. “Does Dad choose that?”
I swallowed.
“I hope he does.”
That was the most honest answer I had.
After they disappeared through the school doors, I sat in the parking lot until the crossing guard tapped the hood of my car with two fingers and smiled politely, reminding me the morning needed to move on.
I drove not to my townhouse, but to the storage unit I had rented after leaving Adrian.
It was in a low beige building near a tire shop, the kind of place people passed every day without noticing. Inside my unit were the remains of a life I had not been ready to sort through: framed photographs, old Christmas decorations, boxes labeled kitchen, office, boys baby clothes, and one dented green toolbox that had belonged to my father.
I had avoided opening it for months.
The lock snapped free with a metallic click. Dust rose when I lifted the lid.
Inside were wrenches wrapped in cloth, a cracked flashlight, a pair of work gloves stiff with age, and a small notebook tucked beneath a tray of screws.
My father’s handwriting covered the first page.
Mileage. Oil change. Brake pads. Weather strip.
I turned pages slowly, smiling despite myself. He had recorded everything. Every repair, every part number, every neighbor who owed him five dollars and every one he had secretly forgiven.
Near the back, the notes changed.
