"I got in," Ethan said.
Richard set the phone down. "Of course you did."
"You don't have to say of course," Ethan said. "You can just say you're glad."
Richard considered this, then nodded. "I'm glad. I'm more than glad. I'm... adjusting to having a son who makes of course feel earned instead of assumed."
It was clumsy. It was also the most carefully honest thing Richard had said in weeks. Ethan plated pasta for both of them, and they ate at the island again, the informal table that had become their truce ground.
The intensive would take Ethan into the city for three weeks in July, dormitory housing, master teachers, students from other states. Helena prepared him with lists and warnings and encouragement disguised as logistics. Sophia had gotten in as well. Their shared delight made April feel like a held high note.
Before summer, though, there was May, and May brought the anniversary of Claire Mercer's death. The date sat on the calendar like a stone in a shoe. In previous years Richard had worked late and Ethan had practiced until his shoulders burned and neither of them had said the word anniversary. This year Richard came home at five with flowers that were not funeral flowers—bright, almost defiant—and set them on the table beside Claire's photograph in the study.