“We cannot keep waiting forever.”
I folded my hands.
“I see.”
Jason mistook my calm for surrender.
Relief loosened his shoulders.
“I knew you would understand,” he said. “You always said everything was for me.”
I looked at the wall behind him.
Pencil marks still recorded his height at six, eight, twelve, and sixteen.
Daniel’s handwriting remained beside the oldest mark.
“When would I leave?” I asked.
“There is a community near us. I checked. They have a short-term trial room available.”
“You checked.”
“Only because this needs planning.”
“And the house?”
“I can handle the agent.”
I nodded once.
“All right.”
He smiled, reached across the table, and squeezed my wrist.
“You are amazing.”
That evening, I packed two suitcases while Jason made calls downstairs.
He kept his voice low.
But old houses carry sound.
I heard “photographer,” “listing,” and “quick closing.”
Then:
“She agreed. There is no issue.”
At dawn, Mrs. Alvarez from next door drove me to the senior-living residence.
Jason said he had meetings and kissed my cheek beside the car.
“I will call tonight,” he promised.
“You should call Emily first.”
His smile twitched.
“Why?”
“Because wives deserve to know where their money comes from.”
He stared at me.
I closed the car door without explaining.
Before leaving, I had written Emily a letter.
I kept it simple.
I repeated Jason’s exact words, explained that I had never offered him my house, and asked her not to accept a false version of what had happened.
Mrs. Alvarez mailed it while I completed the paperwork for my three-night stay.
The room was clean.
Beige curtains.
A television bolted to the wall.
A nurse named Tanya showed me the dining room.
“You settling in permanently?” she asked.
“No.”
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