The misunderstanding does not resolve itself.
If anything, it grows. Like a weed. Like a fungus. Like something that thrives in darkness and silence and the space between what people say and what they actually mean.
Martha Grey spends the next day settling into Lucas's apartment. He insists she stay there rather than at the penthouse, citing "space constraints" and "professional boundaries." His mother agrees with a smile that suggests she understands things he has not said.
She comes to the penthouse for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. She is always there, watching, observing, cataloging every interaction between Lucas and me with the patient attention of a woman who has spent thirty years reading between the lines of children's excuses.
