"I regret the year I spent calling trespass temporary," I said. "I regret every time I let you speak for her hunger as if it were your need. I do not regret the fire. I do not regret the deadbolts. I do not regret loving you enough to stop paying for the privilege of being erased."
He was quiet for a long time. A neighbor's dog barked twice and settled. The cypress trees held the last of the light.
"I'm seeing someone," he said finally. "Slowly. She's a teacher. She brings her own coffee when she visits. She asked me what you like for your birthday before she asked what I could buy her."
"Good," I said. And then, because I was still his mother, and because motherhood does not end when it grows a spine: "Introduce her when you're sure. Not before. And Harrison — if you ever put my name on an account again, I will remove it before the ink dries."
He almost smiled.
"Deal."