“I know.”
“I did it upstairs.”
“The greeting?”
Oliver nodded.
“With June.”
“You did,” I said.
“Four times.”
“Yes.”
He looked at his father.
“So I knew it.”
Vincent moved closer, staying below the child’s eye level.
“You knew it at the table too.”
Oliver frowned.
“But it didn’t come.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t know.”
He seemed to consider that possibility.
Then he asked:
“Does she know?”
Vincent looked toward the door.
“I’m going to speak to her.”
“Will you tell her I tried?”
“Yes.”
“Not just that I got sad?”
“I’ll tell her you tried.”
Oliver began crying then.
Not loudly.
He leaned forward until his forehead rested against his father’s shoulder.
Vincent held him.
I went to the bathroom for a clean washcloth.
When I returned, the suitcase remained open.
Nothing had been put back yet.
But nobody was carrying it downstairs.
For that evening, the difference was enough.
Maren arrived while Oliver changed.
She hugged him, then asked whether he wanted company or a little space.
He chose company.
The three of us stayed in his room while Vincent went downstairs.
I did not hear that conversation.
I learned what happened later from the adults who were present.
Judith had agreed to take Oliver for two weeks.
Camille told her Vincent wanted a quieter period while his work intensified.
She said Maren had approved.
She said the child needed an environment where his speaking habits would not be indulged.
Judith accepted those explanations without checking.
She was ashamed of that afterward.
But at first, she defended herself.
“He’s my daughter’s stepson. I thought she knew the plan.”
Vincent asked why schoolwork had been packed if it was an ordinary visit.
Camille said she liked to be prepared.
