Dad wanted me at Bellafonte House.
Of course.
“Six bedrooms.”
“No.”
“Ground floor.”
“No.”
“Staff.”
“That is literally the problem Colin was obsessed with.”
“That is Colin’s problem.”
“It becomes mine if I move from one household where people decide everything to another.”
Dad went quiet.
Then:
“You think I am Marcia?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“You both believe help is automatically good if you are the person providing it.”
That landed.
I moved into a furnished apartment I already owned through my mother’s estate.
Two bedrooms.
Elevator.
Near my obstetrician and Theo’s pediatrician.
Dad offered security.
I accepted one daytime driver for medical appointments while I remained weak.
No guard inside.
No bodyguard outside the nursery.
No staff entering without invitation.
I hired my own postpartum doula.
With my own money.
Then let Dad reimburse half after he asked.
Asked.
That mattered.
