One evening, after a long day of touring houses, we sat on Julian’s couch scrolling through listings. We were both tired and a little punchy, arguing playfully about whether a breakfast nook was necessary.
Julian nudged me with his shoulder. “This one has a backyard big enough for a garden,” he said, eyes bright. “You’d like that.”
I snorted. “Half my herbs died last time.”
“That’s because you loved them too aggressively,” he said, and I laughed—an easy laugh, unguarded.
Then his expression shifted slightly, thoughtful.
“You know,” he said, “when you moved in, you kept apologizing. For your family. For the drama. Like you were responsible.”
I looked down at my hands. “I felt responsible,” I admitted.
“And now?” he asked.
I thought about my parents selling their house. About Clara’s lies. About the body-cam footage frozen on my mother’s furious face.
“I still feel sad,” I said. “But I don’t feel responsible anymore.”
Julian’s smile was soft. “Good,” he said.
A week later, we found a house that felt right.