She had lunch with her father once a week, usually on Thursdays. They talked about the division sometimes, and about other things the rest of the time. He was careful not to offer unsolicited opinions about the work, because they had agreed on the structure of her authority and he was a man who honored agreements. She appreciated this more than she said.
Once, in the fourth month, he asked her how she was.
Not about the work. Just how she was.
She thought about it honestly before she answered.
“Better,” she said. “Not all the way yet, but genuinely better.”
He nodded.
“Do you think about it?” he asked, and she knew what he meant.
“Less than I expected to,” she said. “In the beginning I thought I’d be angrier. Or sadder. For longer.” She looked at her coffee. “But I think the grieving happened while I was still in it, so by the time it was over there wasn’t as much left to process.” She looked up. “What I think about is the two years before things went wrong. When I was trying hard and believing hard and it didn’t—” she stopped. “I think about what I didn’t see. Whether I should have seen it sooner.”
“Should you have?”
She considered this with the same care she considered everything.