Page 106 of The Voicemail

“You’re visibly laughing.”

“I’m supporting her critical thinking.”

Lucia nods like that settles it and continues her inspection of the room. The gallery is quiet around us. Warm lights. Fresh paint. No Bellamy. No hidden crates. No after-hours shipments I’m not allowed to ask about.

The intake room has a new camera system, one I approved myself, and every artist on the walls knows exactly how their work got here.

Sometimes I still think about the old version of this place. Claire’s desk. Bellamy’s office. The Marchesi crates. The folder that fell loose and changed everything.

Claire sends a holiday card every year now. She lives in Chicago, works for a museum, and always writes the same thing at the bottom.

Still asking questions.

I run my hand over the edge of the reception desk and watch Lucia stop in front of a small landscape near the back wall.

“This one can stay,” she says.

“That’s generous.”

“It has trees.”

“Strong criteria.”

She beams at me.

I used to think love would soften me in a way that scared me. Maybe it has. But I’m sharper now too.

I own the gallery. I know the books. I know every crate, every collector, every donor, every after-hours appointment. I’m still afraid sometimes, but fear doesn’t get to make all my choices.

Neither does Alex. That took work. For both of us. He still gets bossy when he’s concerned. I still call him on it. He still assigns guards the way other people offer snacks. I still remind him that “discreet surveillance perimeter” is not a normal phrase to use during preschool pickup.

But he asks now. Most of the time. When he forgets, Lucia has started helping.

Last week, he told me I shouldn’t drive across town alone during a storm, and our daughter looked him dead in the eye and said, “Papa, you aren’t the boss of Mama.”

I have never been prouder. I have also never seen Luca leave a room faster.

“Ready?” Alex asks.

Matteo shifts against him with a sleepy sound. I look around the gallery one more time.

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go home.”

Home is louder than it used to be. There are shoes by the door, crayons in places crayons should not be, tiny socks under the sofa, and two guards who have learned to accept stickers as part of the job. Lucia insists on walking herself to her room because she’s “almost grown.” Matteo wakes up just long enough to protest the concept of pajamas, then falls asleep halfway through Alex changing him.

I stand in the nursery doorway and watch him. He’s careful with our son in a way that still gets to me. Large hands, slow movements, voice low enough not to wake him. Matteo grabs his father’s finger in his sleep, and Alex goes still, like he’s been chosen for something sacred.

When both kids are down, the house finally settles. I get halfway down the hall before Alex catches my hand and draws me into our bedroom.

“Careful,” I say, though I’m already smiling.

“I’m always careful with you.”

“That’s not true. Not always.”

The door closes behind us.

There’s a moment after that where the whole day falls away. The gallery. The kids. The guards downstairs. The life we built out of danger, stubbornness, and a wrong number.