Chapter 14: What Nora Would Have Wanted
Nora’s room had not changed while they were gone.
The bed was made. The books remained in their careful rows. The drawing of a father and a girl still rested where Adrien had left it, angled so the girl’s face showed and the man’s did not.
Mara stopped just inside the doorway. Sophie came in beside her, one hand tucked into her mother’s. Adrien stayed near the threshold, as if he wanted them to know he would not close the door behind them.
“You can leave whenever you want,” he said. “Both of you.”
Sophie looked up at Mara.
“Do you want to come in?” Mara asked.
After a moment, Sophie nodded.
Adrien stepped farther into the room. The old paper star was folded in his palm. Its creases had gone soft from time, and the words For Dad were hidden inside.
“I found this in one of her music books,” he said. “I’d forgotten it was there.”
He opened the star carefully, following the folds. Sophie watched from beside Mara, but didn’t reach for it.
“Did Nora make it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Was it for you?”
“Yes.”
Adrien looked down at the writing. He didn’t ask Mara to explain it or excuse him. He didn’t turn the little star into proof that he had been a good father, or that one keepsake could settle what he had done and failed to do.
“I used to think keeping everything exactly where it was would keep me from losing any more of her,” he said. “But I was only keeping the room from being used.”
Mara said nothing. It was his thought to finish, if he could.
Adrien laid the paper star on the dresser, not among the books or the things the children might use. A place for it, but not a shrine.
“I keep wanting to ask what Nora would have wanted,” he said. “As if the answer could make this decision for me.”
“You can’t know that,” Mara said.
“No. I can’t.”
“And I’m not going to guess for her.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
Mara glanced toward the books. “You can decide what you believe is right. You don’t need to pretend it’s her decision.”
Adrien took that in without defending himself. His gaze moved to the little shelf of music books.
“She loved music,” he said. “Not because she was perfect at it. She’d lose her place and start over, humming until she found the melody again.”
Sophie hummed a few notes of the familiar tune under her breath.
Adrien’s expression softened, though it did not become easy. “She liked having people around. She’d play for anyone who happened to be listening. Sometimes she wanted an audience. Sometimes she just wanted someone to sit on the rug while she practiced.”
Mara thought of the trial gathering: children turning pages, choosing instruments, and making a small mess. Adrien had stayed when the water spilled. He had not ended the afternoon because the room had failed to remain perfect.
“Then you don’t have to make the room answer for all of that,” she said. “It can be a room where children read or learn music. And it can still be Nora’s room in the ways that matter to you.”
Adrien looked at the drawing. This time, he did not turn away.
“I don’t know what I’m ready to move,” he said.
“You don’t have to move everything today.”
Sophie leaned toward the books, keeping her hands to herself. “Are these for the children?”
“Some could be,” Adrien said. “If I choose to put them out.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then they stay here.”
She accepted this, as she had accepted that the music box could remain in the office even if nobody played it.
Mara felt the importance of that distinction. Opening the room did not have to mean giving away every private thing. Letting children enter did not mean surrendering the right to set limits. And keeping some things untouched did not require keeping the whole house frozen around them.
Adrien looked back at the paper star.
“I want to reopen the room,” he said. “Not because I know what Nora would have wanted. Because I believe children should have a place to read and make music, and because I don’t want grief deciding that no one can come in.”
Mara gave a small nod. “That’s yours to decide.”
He let out a slow breath. “Then I’m deciding.”
The words did not sound like a cure. They sounded like a choice he would have to keep making.
On the way back to the family room, Adrien asked Teresa to join them. She arrived with the written room plan and a folder containing the employment terms Mara had already signed. There was no new offer hidden inside it, no sudden change presented as generosity.
Adrien checked the gathering schedule with Teresa. The previously planned date remained postponed; no one had been asked to prepare for it. For the next regular gathering, they chose a Saturday the following month at two, subject to confirming staff coverage before invitations went out. The signed plan still allowed for two more gatherings followed by a review—not a promise that the room would stay open forever.
The limit remained small. Parents would stay with their children. No photographs. Teresa would coordinate during her paid hours, and any additional help would be scheduled and paid. If staffing fell through, the gathering would be postponed rather than covered by asking someone to work for free or remain past agreed hours.
Teresa wrote down the date and the conditions.
“I’ll send the postponed notice as we discussed,” she said. “And a separate invitation for the new date, once staffing is confirmed.”
“Let me review both,” Adrien said.
“Of course.”
Mara read the section of the plan that concerned her. Her work hours and pay remained as written in the signed 30-day trial agreement. Mrs. Alvarez’s care hours were still the ones Mara had approved for the current week. The cost of that care would appear on Mara’s next pay statement, as Teresa had confirmed. Nothing in the room plan made Mara responsible for caring for children at a gathering, and nothing committed her to keep working after the trial ended.
Adrien rested his hand beside the documents.
“The written terms still stand,” he said. “Your employment will be reviewed before the trial period ends. You can decide then whether it’s working for you. The room plan doesn’t change your duties or your right to leave.”
“Good,” Mara said. “I need the care arrangement to stay week by week. I’ll confirm Mrs. Alvarez’s availability before agreeing to anything beyond this week.”
“That’s yours to manage,” Adrien said. “We’ll only schedule within hours you approve.”
Mara signed nothing new. She didn’t need to. She took a copy of the room schedule to read, and Teresa noted the next steps without treating Mara’s presence as consent to work.
Adrien reviewed the draft notice. It stated plainly that the earlier gathering had been postponed, not canceled, and that no date had been set for it. The separate invitation would name the new Saturday gathering only after the staffing was confirmed.
He made one small change, then handed the page back to Teresa.
“Send it when that’s done,” he said.
Teresa gathered the papers. “I’ll confirm coverage first.”
The arrangements were careful and limited. They did not guarantee that grief would stay quiet, or that the house would never change its mind again. But this time, the plan did not depend on anyone guessing what Adrien meant. It was written down, with a date, a review, and room for Mara to say no.
Adrien looked at her and Sophie.
“The first gathering is set for next month, if staffing checks out. You’re both invited. Not as part of your work. Come if you want to.”
Mara glanced at Sophie. “You don’t have to decide now.”
Sophie looked toward the west wing, then at the paper star, visible through the open doorway to Nora’s room.
“Will there be music?” she asked.
“Yes,” Adrien said. “If the children want to play.”
Sophie considered that answer. “And if they don’t?”
“Then they can read.”
May you like
That seemed to satisfy her. She nestled closer to Mara, still watching Adrien.
Mara picked up her daughter’s coat. The invitation was not an obligation. The room was not a promise that everything would remain easy. Adrien had chosen a date, but the first gathering was still weeks away—and the hardest part might be standing in the doorway when the children arrived.
