By then the agreement had been revised once, carefully, to allow brief stroller walks around the block on dry days if I approved and if Ethan texted before and after.
He never violated it.
Not once.
That was how trust began.
Not with apologies. Not with declarations.
With consistency so boring it became valuable.
Carol finally reappeared in February.
Not in person.
In the form of a letter.
Typed, naturally. Printed on cream stationery, naturally. It stated that she wished to establish a relationship with her grandson “under the current legal framework,” and requested a supervised visit at a time convenient for “the parents.”
The phrase the parents almost made me laugh.
Catherine advised acceptance.
“Supervised. Short. Controlled,” she said. “Let her prove whether she can behave.”
So we arranged one hour on a Saturday afternoon.
Carol arrived in dark wool, carrying a toy far too advanced for a baby his age. She looked older. Not softer. Just more tired around the mouth.
She did not apologize.
I had not expected her to.
But she sat in my living room, accepted my rules, and when Leo reached for her necklace, she let him grip it without making some speech about bloodlines or names.