He looked thinner than in the mansion years, less polished but somehow more genuine — modest apartment, older suits, a voice that no longer assumed the room would bend around him.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“You owe me several.”

“Yes.” He looked through the window, where Sabina was explaining turtle migration with both hands. “I thought if the house looked like mine, that made me a man who could provide.

I thought if my mother believed it, if guests believed it, maybe it became true.”

“That was expensive thinking.”