The misunderstanding did not resolve itself.
If anything, it grew. Like a weed. Like a fungus. Like something that thrived in darkness and silence and the space between what people said and what they actually meant.
Martha Grey spent the next day settling into Lucas's apartment. He had insisted she stay there rather than at the penthouse, citing "space constraints" and "professional boundaries." His mother had agreed with a smile that suggested she understood things he had not said.
She came to the penthouse for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. She was always there, watching, observing, cataloging every interaction between Lucas and me with the patient attention of a woman who had spent thirty years reading between the lines of children's excuses.
