Seb looked at the road ahead.
He had prepared for this. Had rehearsed it in the way he rehearsed things that needed to be managed. A version of the truth that a Nine-year-old could receive.
Something that would not frighten her, confuse her, or leave marks that would need explaining later.
"You remember I told you," he said carefully. "Your mother is still angry with Daddy. She needed some space. But you can see her whenever you want, my love. Whenever you call her, she will answer."
Seren considered this.
He could see her processing it in the rearview mirror, the particular expression of a child who is measuring an answer against some internal standard it cannot yet fully articulate.
"Is she going to come back?" Seren asked.
"You will always be able to see her," Seb said. Which was not the same thing. Which Seren, at Nine, would not yet parse as not the same thing.
She nodded. Returned to the window.
The villa was quiet when they arrived.
