I never had children of my own, so more than twenty years ago, when I spotted a thin little boy sitting by himself across the street from my house, I couldn't just pretend I hadn't seen him.

She talked for almost an hour.

The version of my husband that Nora described was not a monster.

That was the hardest part to sit with.

He had been warm with her — present in the way he had never quite been with me.

He visited twice a year, always in spring and always in October.

He brought her books.

He remembered the names of her friends.

He asked about her studies with what she described as genuine interest, leaning forward in his chair, asking follow-up questions, never checking his phone.

"He came to my graduation," she said.

"University.

He sat in the back so no one would ask who he was.

But he was there."

I thought about that October.

The one eight years ago.

He had told me he was visiting an old colleague in Seattle.

He had been gone for four days.

He came back with a bottle of wine and a vague story about traffic on the I-5.

"Did your mother ever tell you to keep him secret?" I asked.

"She didn't have to," Nora said.

"I understood from very early on that he was someone who existed in a separate compartment.

He never said it directly.

It was just — understood."

"Children understand more than adults think they do," Dylan said quietly.

Nora looked at him.

"You knew him too," she said.

It wasn't a question.

"Not well," Dylan said.

"I knew his behavior.

I knew what he was capable of.

I didn't know the version you're describing."

"Which version is real?" she asked.

Neither of us answered right away.

"Both of them," I said finally.

"That's the thing about people who compartmentalize.

Every version is real.

That's what makes it so difficult."

Nora looked at her hands.

"When my mother told me the truth," she said, "the first thing I felt was relief.

Because it meant the money wasn't from some abstract trust.

It was from a real person.

It meant I was connected to something real." She paused.

"And then I felt sick.

Because the real thing was built on a lie."

"What did you plan to do?" I asked.

"With the account.

The property."

She was quiet for a moment.

"I wanted to claim it," she said.

"I wanted to say — this was meant for me, and I deserve it, and no one can take it away." She looked up.

"I was angry.

I wanted something to hold onto."

"And now?"

She looked at me steadily.

"Now I've been sitting in my mother's house for two weeks thinking about what I actually want," she said.

"And I keep coming back to the same answer."

"Which is?"

"I want it to be over," she said.

"I want to stop being the secret.

I want to stop being the thing nobody was allowed to talk about." Her voice was even, but her hands were pressed flat against her knees.

"I don't want his money.

I don't want the property.

I want to stop carrying something that was never mine to carry."

The room was quiet.

Paulette, who had been sitting near the doorway without speaking, stood up and went to the kitchen.

The sound of water running.

A kettle being filled.

Dylan looked at me.

I looked at Nora.

"Then let's put it down," I said.

"Both of us."

She studied me for a long moment.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"Neither are you," I said.

Something shifted in her face — not a smile, not yet, but the thing that comes before a smile when a person has been braced for a fight and finds that the fight isn't coming.

"What happens to the account?" she asked.

"Legally."

Dylan leaned forward.

"That depends on what Mrs.

Holland decides to pursue," he said.

"The transfers were made from marital assets.

She has a strong claim.

Raymond has exposure.

The property itself is more complicated, but not insurmountable."

"I'm not going to pursue the full amount," I said.

Dylan looked at me.

"I want what was taken from me," I said.