I ask questions.
I look at the numbers.
I listen when my instincts tell me something is off.
And I don’t apologize for protecting myself.
One afternoon, Nolan came to Pinewood to see the workshop.
He stood at the back of the room while my students painted.
“You look different,” he said.
“I’m sleeping again.”
He laughed.
“That helps.”
Then he asked whether I ever wanted to get married again.
I thought about it.
“Maybe.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe?”
I smiled.
“I’m not ruling it out.”
That was the truth.
I wasn’t afraid of marriage.
I just wasn’t interested in using marriage to prove that my life was successful.
I had spent years thinking the wedding was the destination.
Now I understood it was only one possible event in a much larger life.
My students didn’t know anything about Derek.
They didn’t know Clara.
They didn’t care about Apex Logistics or corporate boards or expensive gowns.
They cared whether I showed up.
Whether I listened.
Whether I remembered which child liked drawing and which one preferred reading.
That kind of relationship felt different.
It wasn’t built on appearances.
It was built slowly.
Every day.
That was what I wanted from the rest of my life.
Not perfection.
Not status.