It was a good dinner.
That mattered. People prefer clean villains, but life rarely offers them. Megan laughed when I told her about accidentally joining the wrong committee at the Asheville library. Andrew asked about my drive. He refilled my water before I noticed the glass was empty. For nearly an hour, I could almost believe we were only a mother, a daughter, and a son-in-law sharing a Saturday meal.
Then, as we were finishing cobbler, Andrew set down his spoon.
His expression changed into the careful, polished look of a man reaching the point in the evening he had rehearsed.
“We’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he said.
Megan’s smile tightened.
“And we have some exciting news.”
My heart moved before my mind did.
“You do?”
Megan looked down at her coffee cup. “We’ve decided we’re ready to start trying for a family.”
I reached across the table and took her hand.
“That is wonderful.”
Her fingers curled around mine. “We think so too.”
Andrew leaned forward slightly. “And because of that, we’ve been thinking seriously about space. Roots. Support. The kind of environment we want to raise children in.”
There it was again.
Environment.
Roots.
Support.
Words that sounded generous until you noticed who was expected to provide the soil.
He talked about multigenerational connection. About how many families benefited from sharing a home. About how I would not be alone. About how they could help with maintenance and appointments when I eventually needed more support. He mentioned that my house had room, and that with some modifications, it could become something wonderful for everyone.
Modifications.
I took a slow sip of water and looked at him over the rim of the glass.
He had measured the door frames in February.
“When were you thinking?” I asked.
He relaxed slightly, mistaking the question for cooperation.