The boy leaned back against his pillows.
It was the first time all evening he let go of the card envelope.
We didn’t make him choose a parent that night.
Maren offered to stay until bedtime.
Vincent asked whether she would.
She nodded.
They could manage their discomfort without making Oliver responsible for it.
I put the navy case on a chair.
The child watched.
“Can we take it out?”
“Which things?” I asked.
“All.”
Vincent looked at him.
“Would you like to help?”
Oliver nodded.
We unpacked slowly.
Not as a ceremony.
Socks into the drawer.
Books on the shelf.
The photograph beside his lamp.
He placed the teddy bear on the pillow.
Then he stopped at the name labels.
“What are those for?”
Vincent answered.
“They were packed with your school things.”
“Because I forget?”
“No.”
He put the packet aside.
Oliver watched until the last jumper returned to its hanger.
Then he opened the wardrobe again, apparently checking whether the gaps had really disappeared.
Maren stood beside him.
“Would you like the door open?”
He nodded.
We left it open.
At bedtime, he chose a familiar book.
Vincent read.
Maren listened.
I sat by the window.
When a word caught in the story because Vincent lost his place, Oliver looked up sharply.
His father noticed.
“I lost the line.”
The boy pointed.
“There.”
“Thank you.”
The story continued.
Nobody turned the moment into a lesson.
Oliver deserved at least one part of the evening without being the subject.
Before sleep, he asked whether Camille was coming upstairs.
