Julian came home from “Tokyo” just after dawn, expecting me to be waiting.

Six months later, the shoreline was alive with summer.

The air in Guilford was thick with the scent of wild honeysuckle, sweet grass, and the rich, salty tang of low tide.

I stood in the center of a bright, sun-drenched storefront on the Guilford green. Above the door, gold lettering on the glass read: *MARIN RESTORATION & INTERIORS.*

Before I married Julian, I had completed a master’s degree in architectural preservation. Julian had dismissed it as a “quaint hobby,” encouraging me to leave it behind once Harrison was born so I could manage the social obligations of the Blackwood estate.

Now, with a small business loan secured with Dana’s assistance and the modest, clean settlement from the divorce—not a penny of Blackwood family trust money, but my rightful, legal share of our joint assets—I had built something entirely my own.

We restored antique coastal furniture, sourced vintage textiles, and helped young families turn old, drafty New England houses into warm, living sanctuaries. In four months, our books were filled through the following autumn.

The bell above the shop door chimed.

Sofia walked in, wearing sunglasses and holding two iced lattes, with Harrison perched securely on her hip.

“Look who demanded to see Mama’s new paint samples!” Sofia announced.

“Mama!” Harrison shouted, kicking his little sneakers. He was taller now, his sun-bleached curls bouncing around his face, wearing a striped cotton romper and small sandals.

I put down my swatch book, caught him in my arms, and swung him around until he squealed with laughter, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He smelled like sunscreen, vanilla ice cream, and freedom.

“Did you go to the library?” I asked, kissing his temple.

“Trucks!” Harrison proclaimed proudly, holding up a battered library book about fire engines. “Big red trucks, Mama!”

“He made the librarian check it out three times,” Sofia laughed, setting the iced lattes on my counter. “How’s the final table coming along?”

I gestured toward the back of the studio, where an eight-foot farmhouse dining table made from reclaimed white pine glowed under three coats of hand-rubbed tung oil.

“It’s finished,” I said, running my fingers over the warm, imperfect grain of the wood. “The client is picking it up tomorrow. She told me she wanted a table where her children could leave scratches without being afraid of ruining the finish.”

Sofia smiled warmly, leaning against the counter. “Sounds like the opposite of Greenwich.”

“Greenwich was a museum,” I murmured, setting Harrison down on the braided rug where he immediately opened his truck book. “This is a home.”

My phone chimed with a text message.

It was from the supervised visitation coordinator in New Haven. Attached was a brief progress report:

*‘Mr. Blackwood arrived on time for his Saturday visitation. He brought a set of wooden building blocks and sat on the floor with Harrison for the entire ninety-minute session. Interaction was calm, positive, and age-appropriate. No incidents to report.’*

I read the text twice, then looked down at Harrison.

Julian was keeping his word. He lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Westchester, working as a senior analyst for a boutique risk assessment firm—a respectable job, but light-years away from the private jets and society galas of his past. He paid his child support on the first of every month, never missed a scheduled video call, and never once attempted to bring his mother into Harrison’s orbit.