Chapter 10 - THE HOUSE WE DIDN'T GO BACK TO
The first time Nathan asked whether I would ever consider living with him again, I said no.
Not angrily.
Not to punish him.
I simply wasn't ready.
We were standing in the garden behind Mom's apartment in Evanston, watching Oliver and Benjamin chase soap bubbles across the grass.
Nathan had brought lunch and stayed to help fix a broken gate.
He had become good at that.
Finding something useful to do instead of offering a speech.
"I found a house near the boys' school," he said.
I looked at him.
"Nathan."
"I'm not asking you to move into it."
"Good."
He smiled faintly.
"I thought you might want to see it."
"Why?"
"Because I'm thinking of buying it. For me."
I studied him.
"What happened to your penthouse?"
"I sold it."
That surprised me.
The penthouse had been Nathan's pride.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Marble floors.
An enormous dining table we had once chosen together.
I had spent two years helping design it.
"Why?"
He looked toward the boys.
"Too many rooms that nobody wanted to be in."
I didn't answer.
He continued.
"The new place has a yard. Four bedrooms. A little workshop in the garage."
"That sounds nice."
"There's a room overlooking the backyard. Oliver could build his train tracks there."
"And Benjamin?"
"He said he wanted a reading corner."
I smiled.
"That sounds like Benjamin."
Nathan hesitated.
"There's also a guest room for your mom when she visits."
I looked at him.
"You've thought this through."
"I've had four years to learn what happens when I don't."
That answer stayed with me.
A week later, I visited the house.
The boys were with Margaret.
I wanted to see it without their excitement influencing me.
Nathan met me on the porch.
He held two coffees.
One black.
One with cream and cinnamon.
Mine.
"You remembered."
"I remember more than I used to show."
The house was modest compared with the penthouse.
Warm wooden floors.
A bright kitchen.
A living room with an ordinary fireplace.
I could imagine winter mornings there.
School backpacks near the door.
Tiny shoes scattered beneath the bench.
For the first time, I could picture Nathan living as a father rather than a businessman trying to fit children into his schedule.
Upstairs, he showed me two bedrooms.
Each had a different window view.
"Oliver wanted the room facing the street," Nathan said.
"Why?"
"He says he'll be able to see the garbage truck."
I laughed.
"And Benjamin?"
"He picked the room facing the trees."
"Of course he did."
Then we entered the smallest bedroom.
It was empty.
Nathan stood beside the window.
"I haven't decided what to do with this one."
I glanced around.
"Office?"
"Maybe."
He paused.
"Or somewhere you could work if you ever wanted to."
I looked at him.
"Nathan."
"I know."
He raised one hand.
"I'm not asking."
"Then why mention it?"
"Because I want you to know there would be space for your life, not just mine."
I turned toward the window.
Four years earlier, he had wanted me to fit neatly into his world.
Now he seemed to understand that I had built a world without him.
And he had no right to simply claim it back.
Still, I couldn't ignore the warmth spreading through my chest.
It frightened me.
That evening, I told Mom about the house.
She listened while folding laundry.
"Do you still love him?" she asked.
I stared at her.
"That's a dangerous question."
"Not if you answer honestly."
I thought about Nathan kneeling beside Benjamin to tie his shoe.
The way he listened when Oliver explained an elaborate story about trains.
The way he had sat through uncomfortable family counseling sessions without trying to defend himself.
"Maybe," I whispered.
Mom nodded.
"Love isn't the question you should be afraid of."
"What is?"
"Whether you can trust him with the life you've built."
I sat beside her.
"I don't know yet."
"Then don't rush."
I smiled.
"That's your advice?"
"Sweetheart, you're thirty-three. You're raising two beautiful boys. You've rebuilt your career. You don't need a husband to make your life complete."
She squeezed my hand.
"But if you choose one someday, make sure he knows he's being invited into a good life, not rescuing you from a bad one."
I hugged her.
Two weeks later, Nathan bought the house.
He moved in quietly.
No grand announcement.
No expensive party.
Just a weekend of carrying boxes and assembling furniture.
The boys helped decorate their bedrooms.
Oliver put train stickers above his bed.
Benjamin arranged his books by size.
And I helped choose curtains.
Not because Nathan asked.
Because I wanted to.
One afternoon, while hanging a framed drawing in the hallway, I noticed an old photograph resting on the kitchen counter.
It showed Nathan as a little boy.
He was sitting beside a woman in a yellow dress.
I recognized her from the few pictures I'd seen of his childhood.
His mother, Margaret Cole.
She had died when Nathan was sixteen.
I picked up the photograph.
Nathan entered carrying a box.
"Where did you find that?"
"On the counter."
He smiled sadly.
"Mom used to take me to the lake every summer."
I studied the picture.
Nathan couldn't have been older than four.
The same age as our boys.
He had the same gray eyes.
The same uncertain smile Benjamin wore when he was nervous.
"She looks kind," I said.
"She was."
Nathan put down the box.
"She always said a good man is someone who makes people feel safe when he's in the room."
I looked at him.
"Do you think you've become that man?"
He considered the question.
"I'm trying."
I returned the photograph.
"That's a better answer than pretending you already have."
He smiled.
Then he reached into the box.
"I found something else."
He handed me a small velvet pouch.
Inside was my grandmother's silver brush.
I frowned.
"I thought that was in Albany."
"So did I."
Nathan looked confused.
"It was packed with the things from our old penthouse."
I turned the brush over.
A tiny folded paper was caught beneath the loose silver backing.
I had never noticed it before.
Carefully, I opened the paper.
It contained a handwritten sentence.
May you like
The handwriting belonged to my father.
"Emily, when the time comes, ask Grace why she kept the second photograph."
