Over the next week, Arthur’s demeanor toward Lida changed.
He stopped barking orders at her and started lingering near the dish area, asking if she needed anything. One afternoon, he appeared with two cups of coffee.
“Look,” he began awkwardly, “I know I’ve been… a jerk. I didn’t know who you were. If I had, I—”
“You would’ve been nicer?” Lida cut in with a wry smile.
He chuckled softly. “Yeah. And I want to do better. You’re family, Lida. And I don’t want to waste more years not knowing you.”
She didn’t answer right away. Family had always been a fragile, painful word for her. But there was something genuine in his tone.
With Evelyn’s gentle encouragement, the siblings began to talk more. Arthur asked about Amelia, and Lida shared stories of their mother’s resilience and warmth. He confessed that his own childhood, though privileged, had been lonely — his mother often busy, his father distracted and distant.
“I used to hear him humming sometimes,” Arthur said. “And I’d catch this look on his face, like he was somewhere else. Maybe he was thinking about you.”
That thought stirred something unexpected in Lida — not forgiveness, exactly, but a softening. Perhaps her mother had been right: maybe there had been more to Victor’s disappearance than weakness.
