“Breast cancer.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Is she—”
“Fine now.”
He nodded.
“Surgery.”
“Treatment.”
“She’s doing well.”
Freya looked down.
“You moved back for her.”
“Partly.”
The irony was so sharp neither spoke.
Finally Freya laughed.
Evan did too.
Not because illness was funny.
Because three years earlier he had argued that people could not build every decision around family crisis.
Then his mother became sick.
“What happened with the woman?”
Freya asked.
“Rachel.”
“Yes.”
Evan looked toward the window.
“She wanted me to come back to Seattle after my mom stabilized.”
“I wanted to stay closer.”
“We tried distance.”
“Then stopped.”
Freya waited.
“Did she accuse you of choosing your family?”
“No.”
“She said I changed what I wanted.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Was she wrong?”
“No.”
That mattered.
Freya looked at him.
“Do you regret moving back?”
“No.”
“Do you regret Seattle?”
“No.”
“Do you regret us?”
Evan took longer.
“I regret believing one message was enough to understand everything.”
Freya swallowed.
He continued.
“But I do not regret respecting what I thought was your boundary.”
She looked away.
That answer was irritatingly mature.
He smiled faintly.
“You wanted something worse.”
“I wanted you to say you should have broken into the hospital.”
“That would have been romantic.”
“Also illegal.”
“Details.”
They laughed.
Then stopped.
The room felt different.
Not fixed.
Possible.
Freya stood.
“I cannot date you.”
Evan blinked.
“I didn't ask.”
“Good.”
“I was about to.”
She stared.
He smiled.
“Eventually.”
“Do not.”
“Understood.”
She pointed.
“And do not turn this into waiting for me.”
“I have a life.”
“That sounded defensive.”
“It was.”
Freya smiled despite herself.
“I need to figure out what belongs to now.”
Evan nodded.
“Okay.”
This time the word meant exactly what it should.
Nothing more.
Tessa started therapy before Freya spoke to her again.
Freya knew because Martin told her.
She told him not to update her.
He stopped.
Good.
Family members often believed boundaries meant deliver the same information more gently.
Martin actually listened.
That helped.
Freya did begin talking to him again.
Their first conversation was not about Tessa.
It was about groceries.
Then his condo association.
Then a television show neither liked.
Finally Martin said:
“I should apologize.”
Freya closed her eyes.
“For what?”
“I made your sister responsible for too much when your mother was sick.”
Freya looked toward him.
They sat at his kitchen table.
Martin’s right hand rested beside a ceramic mug.
The stroke had changed the way his fingers curled when relaxed.
He noticed her looking.
“Still ugly.”
“It was ugly before.”
“Genetic.”
She smiled.
Then:
“Dad.”
“Yes.”