They finished where they began—the lobby.
Margaret, her supervisor, bore down on her, clipped, flushed. “We need to talk. Now.”
Catherine turned to sign to Robert, but a quiet voice cut in—carrying a corner office and a son’s history.
“Actually, Margaret,” said Michael Hartwell, stepping forward, “I need to speak with Ms. Walsh first.”
Silence rippled across the lobby.
Michael looked at his father—then signed, halting but careful. “Dad. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I didn’t know… until I saw you with her. I watched. You looked happy.”
Robert’s breath caught. “You’re learning?”
Michael’s hands steadied. “I should have learned sooner. I want to speak with you in your language—not make you live in mine.”
There, amid marble and glass, they hugged—awkward at first, then fierce, like two people finally finding a door in a wall they’d pressed against for years.
