Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Sophie
I spot Theo before he sees me.
He is standing near the gate with his backpack strapped over both shoulders and a small cardboard structure balanced carefully in his hands. His dark hair is slightly mussed from recess, and the concentration on his face is so complete that he nearly walks past me.
“Theo,” I call.
His head snaps up, and those blue eyes find mine immediately.
“Mom.”
He changes direction and comes toward me, still holding the project in front of him as though one wrong movement might destroy it.
I bend to kiss the top of his head, then look down at the collection of cardboard, string, wooden sticks, and plastic wheels in his hands.
“What am I looking at?”
“It’s a pulley,” Theo says.
“Obviously,” I reply.
He gives me a patient look.
“It’s supposed to lift the cup.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
I take his backpack while he continues protecting the model with both hands. “What happened?”
“The string was wrong.”
“Just yours?”
Theo shakes his head as we start toward the car.
“Everybody’s. We pulled it, and the cup kept tipping over.”
“So what did you do?”
“I moved the string.”
There is no pride in the answer. To Theo, if something does not work, changing it is simply what comes next.
I glance down at him.
“What did your teacher say?”
“She said we were supposed to follow the directions.”
“That sounds pretty normal for a school project.”
Theo frowns.
“But the directions were wrong.”
“Theo.”
“They were, Mom.”
I unlock the car and look at him. He stares back with complete sincerity, his blue eyes narrowed slightly against the afternoon sun.
I know that expression. I have known it since he was old enough to sit on the living-room floor for half an hour trying to figure out why one wheel on his toy truck would not turn like the others.
“Did you tell your teacher the directions were wrong?” I ask.
Theo nods.
“How exactly did you tell her?”
His eyes slide away from mine.
“Theo.”
“I just said they didn’t work.”
“That sounds fine.”
He shifts the cardboard model in his hands.
I wait.
After a moment, Theo adds, “And I said maybe somebody made a mistake.”
I press my lips together to keep from smiling.
“Did you say that in front of the class?”
“She asked me.”
“I know she asked you.”
“So I told her.”
I open the rear door for him.
“You really do take me seriously when I tell you not to lie.”
Theo smiles. “Yep.”
“That wasn’t necessarily praise.”
His smile gets wider as he climbs into the back seat. I set his backpack beside him and close the door. By the time I get behind the wheel, he is already turning the little cardboard pulley around in his hands again.
“Can we get more string?” Theo asks.
“We have string at home.”
“The blue kind?”
“We have white string.”
“I need blue.”
I glance at him through the rearview mirror.
“Why?”
He looks at me as though the answer should be obvious.
“Because mine is blue.”
“That explains absolutely nothing.”
“It has to match.”
I pull away from the curb.
“You have homework.”
“I know.”
“And you need a snack.”
“I know.”
“And we are not making an emergency craft-store run because your pulley has a color scheme.”
Theo lets out an exaggerated sigh and sinks back against the seat. I smile as I merge into traffic.
This is our normal: school pickup. Homework. Negotiations over snacks and craft supplies. Dinner squeezed between my deadlines and Theo’s bedtime. Cardboard projects appearing on the dining table and tiny pieces of whatever he has decided to build turning up in places they absolutely do not belong.
It is quiet in a way I once thought quiet might be boring. I know better now.
Our townhouse sits on a tree-lined street several minutes from the school, close enough that I could walk the route if Los Angeles were not so deeply committed to turning every simple errand into a driving experience.
The house is not enormous, but it is ours: three bedrooms, a small office overlooking the courtyard, a kitchen I renovated two years ago after finally admitting I had no intention of leaving, and a narrow patio where Theo has claimed one corner for his collection of boxes, toy parts, craft sticks, and things he insists he might need later.
California was supposed to be temporary. I stopped calling it that years ago. Theo leans forward slightly in the back seat.
“Can Aunt Emma come over tonight?”
“She has work.”
“She said she might be done early.”
I glance at him in the mirror.
“When did Aunt Emma tell you that?”
“Yesterday.”
“You two are discussing schedules without me now?”
“She called.”
“And you asked what time she was coming over?”
Theo shrugs. “Maybe.”
I laugh softly.
“That sounds more accurate.”
“She said she could maybe come after dinner.”
“We’ll ask her when we get home.”
Theo nods, apparently satisfied.
Emma lives less than fifteen minutes away, close enough that Theo considers her apartment another version of home and her refrigerator something he has unrestricted access to.
Seven years ago, I arrived in California with two suitcases and no real plan beyond staying with my sister until I could figure out what came next.
Somehow that became work, then Theo, then a lease of my own, then this townhouse, school applications, pediatricians, birthday parties, soccer clinics he quit after three weeks, and an aunt who has been woven so tightly into his life that he has never known anything different.
I turn onto our street. Theo lifts the cardboard project again and looks at it for several seconds before speaking.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“If something doesn’t work, can you fix it?”
“Usually.”
“What if you already did it wrong?”
I glance at him through the mirror.
“Then you try again.”
He considers that answer.
“What if it still doesn’t work?”
“Then you figure out what part is causing the problem.”
“And then you fix that part?”
“If you can.”
Theo looks down at the pulley again, turning one of the little wheels with his finger.
“Okay.”
The question is already gone from his mind. Mine holds onto it a little longer.
I pull into the driveway and turn off the engine.
“Homework first,” I tell him.
Theo immediately protests. “Snack first.”
“Homework.”
“Mom, I’m hungry.”
“You were fine five minutes ago.”
“I got hungrier.”
I turn around in my seat and look at him.
“Snack, then homework.”
Theo smiles. “Deal.”
He opens the door and climbs out carefully with his project. I watch him cross toward the townhouse, dark hair catching the late-afternoon sun as he bends over the cardboard pulley again.
For one brief second, something in the angle of his face catches me; the blue eyes. The dark hair. The way his brow pulls together when he is trying to solve something. The resemblance is stronger some days than others. I let my gaze linger for a moment before reaching for his backpack.
Theo turns from the front steps.
“Mom, are you coming?”
“I’m coming,” I tell him.
I grab his backpack and follow him inside.
The front door clicks shut behind us, and Theo heads straight for the kitchen with his project still balanced in both hands.
“Snack first,” he reminds me.
“I remember the deal,” I tell him as I set his backpack on one of the counter stools.
I open the refrigerator, pull out sliced apples and cheese, and slide the plate toward him.
“Then homework.”
Theo takes a piece of apple.
“Can I have peanut butter too?”
“Yes.”
He opens the cabinet, pulls out the jar, and carries everything toward the dining table, where his schoolwork already competes for space with the things he builds.
“Keep the pulley away from your food,” I tell him.
“I know,” Theo says as he settles into his chair.
I leave him to it and cross into the small office off the living room.
The room used to be the third bedroom, but after years of balancing interviews, deadlines, and motherhood across every available surface, I finally gave myself a proper workspace.
My desk faces the courtyard, where the late-afternoon sun filters through the trees and throws shifting shadows across the floor.
My laptop wakes to a full inbox. Three messages are from my editor.
Two are from our research desk. Another is from a producer asking whether I can move a founder interview scheduled for Thursday.
Beneath those is a note from the investigations team about a source packet I requested earlier in the week.
This is what my work looks like now.
I am not scrambling for access or trying to convince someone that I deserve the assignment after it has already been placed in my hands.
When our publication wants a difficult founder profiled, a family empire untangled, or a billionaire who hates interviews persuaded to sit still long enough to answer real questions, my name usually lands somewhere near the top of the list.
It took years to get here, but I did.
I open the first message from my editor, scan it, and move to the next.
Our publication—Vanguard Business Journal—operates nationally, with reporters moving between Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, Washington, and wherever the story requires us to be.
Over the past few years, I have written about private-equity families, founders who turned modest companies into global corporations, succession fights inside multigenerational businesses, and one particularly unpleasant technology CEO who spent nearly two hours answering questions I had never asked.
From the dining room, Theo calls, “Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Can I have another apple?”
“Go ahead.”
A moment later, his chair scrapes across the floor.
“Thanks,” Theo calls.
“You’re welcome.”
I smile and turn back to my screen. The latest message from my editor is short.
Need you in tomorrow at 9:30. Editorial conference room. New assignment discussion. Please keep the morning clear.
I read it twice.