Please keep the conversation focused on your son.
At seven exactly, my phone rang.
Corinne appeared on the screen.
And the first thing I saw was Owen sleeping against her shoulder.
I forgot every argument I had prepared.
It had only been days.
But he looked different.
His cheek rested against Corinne’s collarbone.
His tiny fist was curled under his chin.
“Hi,” I said.
Not destroyed.
Not furious.
Just tired.
“Hi.”
“Can I see him?”
She angled the phone.
“Hey, buddy.”
Owen slept through it.
“Is he okay?”
“Yes.”
“Eating?”
“Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“Not much.”
A ghost of the old Corinne passed through her expression.
“Where are you?”
“Grant.”
“I know.
I’m sorry.”
“I got your envelope.”
“I assumed you did.”
“The board—”
“Don’t.”
“I don’t want to discuss the company.”
“You knew what would happen.”
Her face changed.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
“Did I make those transactions?”
