THE THINGS WE WERE AFRAID TO SAY

The trouble began with a letter from my old university.

It offered me the opportunity to reenroll, with a plan to cover my outstanding tuition. I stared at it for a full minute before noticing the attached note from Dante's assistant.

The arrangements had been made at Mr. Moretti's request.

I called him immediately.

"Did you contact my university?"

"Yes," he said, then heard my silence. "Sophie, I thought—"

"You thought you'd decide how I go back to school without asking me?"

"I wanted to give you something you wanted."

"Then you should have asked what I wanted."

We met in his office that evening. He had dismissed his staff, but the room still made me feel small with its tall windows and expensive furniture.

"I can afford the tuition," he said. "It changes nothing for me."

"It changes something for me. I spent years having people tell me what was best for my family. I don't want someone else taking the steering wheel just because he can afford the car."

His jaw tightened. "I'm trying to help."

"I know. But help that ignores what I say doesn't feel like help."

He looked away, and I knew he'd heard me. It didn't erase the hurt.

"I need a little time," I said. "The two-week agreement is finished. Margaret has already arranged Leo's next activities. I'd like to step back from the visits and from us for a while."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

"I'm asking for space to figure out what I want when no one else is choosing for me."

He was silent for a long time. Then he nodded. "I'll tell the university to cancel any arrangement I made. The decision is yours."

"Thank you."

I talked with Leo the next afternoon. Dante stayed nearby, but he let me speak.

"I'm not coming for our usual sessions anymore," I explained. "Your afternoon program will still happen, and your dad will do the Thursday planet model with you. We can plan a video call on Sunday if you'd like."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No. This is a grown-up decision. You didn't cause it, and you aren't responsible for fixing it."

He looked at his schedule card. "Sunday at four?"

"Sunday at four."

When I left, he gave me one of the paper stars we'd made together. I cried on the subway home, holding it carefully between two fingers.

The next weeks were lonely. But I went to the university myself, met an adviser, and asked about scholarships and evening classes. I could afford a slower route back. It would be mine.

On Sunday I called Leo. He showed me a new model he and Dante had built. The rings of Saturn were crooked. They were both immensely proud of it.

"Daddy doesn't rush anymore," Leo announced. "Well, he still rushes sometimes."

"I'm improving," Dante protested from offscreen.

"A little," Leo allowed.

I laughed. Hearing Dante's voice hurt, but it also told me something mattered: he hadn't stopped showing up just because I wasn't there.