of both of us.
Rowan spent years reacting to other people’s expectations.
His mother’s.
His employer’s.
Sometimes mine.
I spent years reacting against expectations.
Dad’s name.
My family’s wealth.
People’s assumptions.
Neither of us had stopped often enough to ask what we actually wanted.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He thought.
“This.”
He gestured toward the nursery.
“You. Leo. Work I’m proud of. Dinner without checking email twelve times.”
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“I’m getting older.”
“You’re thirty-six.”
“Ancient.”
I smiled.
Then he asked:
“What do you want?”
The
