I began sleeping at the workshop some nights. There was a small upstairs office with a couch and a shower we'd added when Malik and I worked long restoration jobs. Nora disliked the idea but understood it wasn't entirely about guarding the furniture. The house contained too many reminders of Tessa, and I wasn't ready to decide what to do with all of them. At the workshop I could hear the heating system click on and imagine Dad coming downstairs for his first coffee.
During those nights I went through old photographs of the Riverlight library. Children sat on the low benches with picture books in their laps. A librarian stood behind the arched table in a skirt patterned with small flowers. Sunlight passed through the cabinets' glass and left curved shapes on the floor. In one photograph my father was barely visible near the edge, kneeling to adjust a cabinet door while everyone else posed for the camera.
That was Dad. He wanted things to function long after the attention moved elsewhere. He taught me that a piece of furniture was successful if a person could use it without thinking about the person who made it. He loved that a child could reach the lowest Riverlight shelves without help. He cared less about being remembered than about the room working.
I wondered what he would think of collectors competing to own the pieces. He would have been proud and embarrassed. He might have accepted the money if our family needed it. But I suspected he'd be disappointed by the idea that the collection's highest purpose was to vanish into a room the public never entered. That suspicion wasn't a legal argument or a reason everyone else should agree with me. It was simply the feeling I couldn't ignore when Tessa spoke about unlocking value.
Meanwhile, our personal separation grew complicated in ordinary, exhausting ways. Tessa arranged to collect clothing, books, and some furniture from the house. Miriam and her attorney coordinated dates, and a neutral third party was present so neither of us could later claim the other had taken something without permission. We agreed on several items she had bought, disputed a few others, and postponed discussion of shared household expenses. The practical work made the breakup undeniable in a way the hotel conversation hadn't.
The morning she moved her yellow sofa, I stayed at the workshop. Nora called afterward to tell me the movers had finished and the house was secure. I went home that evening and found a pale rectangle on the floor where the sofa had sat. Dust outlined the old rug. The room looked larger, but not better.
I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and remembered the day we'd bought it. Tessa had dragged me through a furniture showroom insisting the sofa was a perfect shade of mustard. I'd said it looked like something a cartoon character would own. She had laughed so hard that a salesperson came over to ask whether we were okay. We bought it anyway, and for years it was the place where we watched terrible movies on rainy Sundays.
Losing that memory hurt. It also made me realize I didn't need to keep the object to preserve what had been good. I could remember those days honestly while refusing to return to the person who had betrayed me. The distinction felt impossible at first. Gradually, it became the only way forward.
On the following Friday, a woman named Melanie Shaw called. She and Tessa had worked together at the design firm, and we'd met at parties often enough that I considered her a friend. Her voice was hesitant. She said she wasn't calling to take sides, and then immediately admitted that wasn't entirely true.
"Tessa told me you refused to let her pursue her own business," Melanie said. "She said she'd borrowed money to keep her events company alive because you wouldn't help."
I listened without interrupting. Melanie continued. "I believed her. I helped her prepare a pitch for prospective investors. I even told her she deserved someone who supported her ambition."
"Why are you calling me?"
"Because I saw a copy of the consignment paperwork last month. She was showing it to people as proof of income she expected to receive. Yesterday, after I heard about the police report, I realized something. She told us you'd already agreed to sell your father's collection. But every time I saw you at an event, you said you wanted to exhibit it first."