“He cares for you.”

“More than he wants to admit to himself.”

I looked down at my hands, which looked pale against the white sheets.

“He only cares because of what I mean to the boys,” I said.

“He feels guilty.”

“Maybe,” Ruth said.

“But guilt doesn’t make a man stay up all night coordinating medical transport.”

“It doesn’t make him clear out his late wife’s favorite wing of the house for you.”

I looked around the room.

The west wing had been Evelyn’s sanctuary.

It was where she had spent her final months, painting and reading.

“I shouldn’t be in this room, Ruth,” I said.

“It feels wrong.”

“It is the quietest room in the house,” Ruth replied firmly.

“And it is where you belong right now.”

A soft knock on the door interrupted us.

Daniel pushed the door open.

He had rolled up his shirtsleeves, and his tie was gone.

He looked exhausted, with dark shadows under his eyes.

“Ruth,” he said.

“Can you give us a moment?”

“Of course, Mr. Whitmore,” Ruth said.

She stood up, gave my hand a brief squeeze, and left the room.