Chapter 32
Thirty-two
Addie
The holidays blur together when I look back on them now—Luc on my living room floor with an Allen key between his teeth, putting together the glider like he’d always planned to be there.
And later repeating these motions with the crib he bought without asking me to split the cost. He didn’t make a big deal of it. He just built it.
I was also stunned when he handed me a wrapped gift for the baby. It was a tiny Saskatchewan Roughriders hockey jersey, and he was proud and almost shy about it. I told him our son would never play hockey. He only said that if he wanted to, he hoped he’d have that option.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t insist. But he shared his perspective and left it there, open. And I remember realizing I didn’t actually care whether our son stepped on the ice. I cared that Luc wasn’t trying to decide for either of us.
On New Year’s, we went to a party at Mikey’s where Ryker announced that he and Ginny are expecting in July, and just before midnight, Luc kissed me. It was soft and unhurried, not demanding anything. And five nights later, it’s still the thing I fall asleep thinking about.
Home after a long day, I unlock the door to my building and feel the day soak into my bones all at once.
I met with three different vineyards across the valley, and Luc joined me for my doctor’s appointment.
Eight months in now, and everything is still steady.
I should feel relieved. Mostly I feel tired.
Our routine has been the same for the last month.
Luc meets me at Dr. Carroll’s office every Friday.
I take a rideshare over and have my check-up, and then usually Luc and I go to dinner, though today I’m just too pooped.
We did the Thai place for a while, and now, we mostly do the teriyaki place.
I crave the chicken and broccoli dish the most. Afterwards, he takes me home and leaves me at the front door.
It’s a steady routine, and I like it. He asks how I’m feeling in a way that leaves room for a real answer, and he doesn’t follow it up with advice or instructions.
This is a significant change, and I’ve noticed.
I take the stairs nice and slow. Carrying this extra twenty pounds is taxing, and I’m always winded.
I stop at the landing and lean against the wall, one hand resting low on my stomach, breathing through the dull ache that comes from too many hours on my feet.
It’s not pain exactly. More like my body reminding me that it has limits now, whether I want them or not.
I walk to my door, keys already in my hand, moving on muscle memory more than intention. I’m thinking about dinner, about taking my shoes off, about standing in front of the wall where the mural is and adding a few touches before going to bed tonight.
My door is ajar as I approach, and my pulse races. Who would be here this time of day?
My landlord looks up at me from the living room, surprised. “Coming back to make sure the movers got everything?”
“What?”
The apartment is empty. I don’t understand what he’s saying. But then I notice the smell of fresh wall paint. The carpet has marked rows where it’s been cleaned, and my furniture is gone.
“You’re welcome to look, but everything is gone.”
“Where are all my things?”
He shakes his head. “Evelyn Dempsey contacted me last month and gave your thirty-days’ notice. I was here to let the movers in.”
“She did what?”
“She moved your things out.”
“How could she do that?”
He shrugs. “She owns the building.”
When did she buy my building?
He’s right, though. Everything is gone. No couch. No table. The shelves along the far wall are bare, the hooks by the door stripped down to nothing. The rug I bought because it softened the space is gone, the floor beneath it cleaner than I’ve ever seen.
I take another step in. The room answers with the same hollow sound.
But my heart clenches when I find the wall in the nursery where the mural was now plain white.
They’ve covered over all my work with a smooth, neutral paint that catches the light without giving anything back.
No trace of the brushwork. No uneven edges.
Just a blank surface where something personal used to exist.
I stand there, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other resting at my side. I focus on my breathing, on the solid feel of the frame under my palm, on the fact that the floor isn’t moving, even if everything else just has.
This isn’t a mistake. The paint is too fresh. The space too clean. And anyway, Evie doesn’t do this kind of thing by accident.
I don’t sit down because there’s nowhere to sit. I don’t move farther in because there’s no reason to. I stay where I am, at the edge of what used to be mine, letting reality take shape.
“You seem surprised by this,” my landlord says. “Your grandmother said you and the baby would be staying with family for a while.”
For a moment, I consider correcting him. Saying that no one asked me. That I didn’t agree. That this was not a plan so much as a removal. The words line up and then fall away. There’s no point in placing them here.
“Okay,” I say instead.
He looks relieved, like this is the best possible outcome for an uncomfortable interaction. “If you need copies of anything for your records, just let me know.”
“I will.”
He nods and moves toward the door, his footsteps receding down the hall, already absorbed back into the rhythms of the building. I watch until he disappears around the corner, and then turn back toward the apartment one last time.
Everything that mattered has already been decided.
There’s nothing left to gather, and even if there were, I’m not able to determine what belongs to me right now. I step away from the door and let it close, the hallway swallowing the sound like it was never there.
I lean against the wall again, a hand on my stomach, breathing through the pressure that settles there when I stay upright too long. My body is asking for care. Not answers. Just a place to be.
Outside, the cold hits my face and clears some of the fog.
I stop on the sidewalk, my coat open, my bag heavy on my shoulder.
I don’t reach for my phone. I’m not ready to talk to anyone about this, and certainly not my grandmother.
I know she believes she’s made things safe and practical, closed off uncertainty.
But she doesn’t get to make those choices for me.
I start walking with no real destination in mind, just movement for the sake of it. Each step feels like a small refusal. I am not going back to her house. There is no possible way.
A few blocks on, my back tightens and my pace slows. I find a low stone wall and sit, adjusting carefully until the weight distributes in a way my body will accept. I rest my hands over my stomach and let myself breathe. The stress is causing Braxton Hicks contractions.
I don’t know where I’m going yet. But I know where I’m not going.
I reach for my phone and scroll my contacts, my thumb slowing when I reach Luc’s name. I tap before I can second-guess myself.
The message is short. Factual. No explanation.
Me: Are you downtown?
I send it and set the phone on my thigh, resisting the urge to watch for the reply. If he can’t, he can’t. I’ll figure something else out.
A few minutes pass before the screen lights up again.
Luc: Yes. Do you need something? Is it time?
Me: It’s not time. Can you meet me?
I give him the name of the cross streets and nothing else. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong.
Luc: I’m on my way.
While I wait, I call Emma. She’s in India attending a family wedding for a few weeks, so I’m not surprised she doesn’t answer.
“Evie moved me out of my apartment,” I tell her voicemail. “It’s empty, cleaned, and the mural has been painted over. Luc is on his way.”
By the time Luc arrives, I’ve stood up and started pacing, easing the stiffness out of my hips. He parks at the curb and jumps out.
“Hi,” he says. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not.”
For a moment, we stand there, the space between us unclaimed. He just waits. Not for permission exactly. For direction.
“My apartment’s gone,” I say finally. The words flow easily, surprising in their simplicity. “Evie canceled my lease. She had it emptied this morning. They painted over the mural.”
He opens his mouth, but then closes it again, his eyes sympathetic.
“I don’t want to live under her thumb again,” I add, quieter this time.
Luc nods once. “Okay.”
That’s it. No follow-up. No reassurance. Just acknowledgment.
That helps me breathe easier. I hadn’t realized how much I was bracing for resistance until it doesn’t come.
We walk together without deciding where we’re going.
Luc matches my pace without comment, slowing when I do, stopping when I stop. It’s a small thing, but I feel it—the way he lets me set the rhythm.
After a few blocks, my back tightens again, and he gestures toward a low bench outside a café, offering it as an option.
I sit, grateful, and he takes the spot beside me with enough space that I don’t feel crowded. The noise of the street is muted just enough to make room for thought.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next,” I say. It’s the first thing that’s sounded uncertain out loud. “I know what I’m not doing. But that’s not the same.”
Luc nods, eyes on the street instead of on me. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
I rest my hands over my stomach and focus on the steady rise and fall beneath my palms. “She always does this,” I say. “Makes things ‘easier’ by making them final.”
“I guess that can feel like help,” he says.
“Until it doesn’t.”
He lets that sit. When I glance over, he’s watching a couple cross the street walk their dog, not monitoring my reaction.
“I keep thinking I should be grateful,” I admit. “But all I feel is…small. I think that’s what she wants.”
Luc turns then, just enough to meet my eyes. “You don’t look small.”
I look away first, throat tightening, and he doesn’t follow the movement. He stays where he is, steady.
The silence lingers.
“I’m going to need a place to land,” I say. The words feel careful. “Not forever. Just…for now.”
He nods. “Okay.”
I wait for the familiar worry that usually follows moments like this, the sense that a decision is being made around me. It doesn’t come. Instead, there’s room. Enough that I can think.
“I want to figure it out myself,” I add. “I just don’t want to do it alone.”
Luc considers that a moment and nods. “I’m here for you to do whatever you need.”
I nod, grateful. I believe him. We sit there a while longer, the light fading, the street changing tempo as people head home.
When I stand, he stands with me, waiting for my lead.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and adjust my coat, aware of how deliberate my movements feel. Not hesitant. Intentional.
As we walk back toward his car, I’m aware of what he isn’t doing. He hasn’t suggested his place. He hasn’t called a lawyer. He hasn’t tried to solve it before I finish saying it out loud.
He’s just here.
That feels remarkable.
I settle into the passenger seat carefully, adjusting until the pressure in my lower back eases. Luc starts the engine but doesn’t pull away until I tell him to drive.
It’s a small thing, but it matters.
He isn’t taking over. And he isn’t retreating either.
I feel steadied.
And that’s a good start.