“We will tell him together,” Harold said.

“I don’t want you to face his anger alone, Eleanor.”

“I can handle my son, Harold,” I said, though my heart was pounding against my ribs.

“I know you can,” Harold said.

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

We walked out of the workshop and back into the house.

The kitchen was warm, but the air felt heavy with anticipation.

Rachel set the kettle on the stove, her movements quick and nervous.

“I’ll make some tea,” she said.

“I don’t think tea is going to calm David down,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table.

Harold sat opposite me.

He folded his hands on the clean wooden surface.

“Eleanor,” he said.

“This is not just about the money.”

“I know,” I said.

“It’s about Arthur,” Harold said.

“David is trying to solve a problem by cutting away his past.”

“I did the same thing after Clara died,” Harold said softly.

“I gave away her sewing machine to a thrift store.”

“I thought it would make the house feel less empty,” he said.

“Did it?” I asked.

“No,” Harold said.