“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

He set the suitcase down. “Maggie, offering you a room isn’t purchasing authority over your life.”

The words reached a part of me that had waited years to hear them. The guest suite had its own sitting area, a private bath, and a desk beside the window — larger than the first apartment Thomas and I had shared.

Fresh towels and a folded navy robe lay on the bed. No cardboard boxes. No children’s coats on the door. No exercise equipment in the corner. I set Thomas’s photograph on the nightstand.

Harold stood by the window. “I should have checked on you.”