“He asked whether remembering his first family made him less part of this one.”
“I was trying to help him settle.”
“He has been settled.”
“He still asks questions.”
“Yes.”
She looked at my mother.
Vivian answered before Camilla could ask.
“I’m sixty-six years into being a parent. Questions haven’t stopped.”
Camilla stayed at her sister’s house that night.
I did not describe it to Theo as a punishment he had caused.
The following morning, I told him she would be elsewhere while the adults worked through what happened.
He asked whether the wedding was canceled.
I said there were decisions to make.
He looked worried.
“Do I have to decide?”
“No.”
The relief was immediate.
Adults often ask children what they want when the real question is too large for them to answer safely.
Did he want a woman who frightened him to disappear?
Did he want his father to be sad?
Did he want another household change?
Those choices did not belong on his breakfast plate.
I asked something smaller.
“What would help this morning?”
Theo thought.
“Can Grandma come?”
“Yes.”
“And can my chair stay?”
I looked at it.
The chair had been returned to the usual place.
Beside mine.
“It can.”
He ate his toast.
Later, he moved his own water glass closer to the center of the place mat.
Not to avoid trouble.
Because it was easier to reach.
I found myself noticing the difference.
I suspected I would be noticing small things for a long time.
I spoke to Mrs. Bell after breakfast.
She had worked in our house for nine years.
She looked troubled when I asked whether she had noticed changes.
“I thought Mrs. Vivian had spoken to you.”
“About what?”
“The place settings.”
I waited.
Camilla had moved Theo twice before.
Once during a lunch with her relatives.
Once at an event for one of our businesses.
