The day after he tells me about his father, something in the project room is different.
Not the room itself. The room is exactly the same. Same table, same shelf with the silver-veined tile sitting where he placed it weeks ago, same north-facing windows that lose their warmth by midafternoon. But the air inside it has changed overnight and we both feel it and neither of us is pretending we do not, which is itself the change, because pretending has been the main activity in this room for months.
I am already at the table when he arrives. He comes through the door, sets his coffee down on his side of the table, and says: “Good morning.”
Not Ms. Sinclair. Not the professional version with the correct distance embedded in it. Just good morning, said the way you say it to someone whose prese
