bit ridiculous.”
“He just wants you to change your mind about the job in D.C.,” Ginny says.
“Not going to happen,” Malcolm says. “That’s why Adair needs to come home. Someone has to keep an eye on him.”
“He has Felix,” I remind them, not even sure they remember I’m still on the call.
“He needs family. You know that,” he says it in a light tone, but I feel the dark current running through his words. Our father isn’t happy unless one of us is around to order about. Now that Mom’s gone, one of us has to take her place.
“Well, keep me updated,” I say, suddenly feeling too tired to wander around a museum, “and congrats.”
As soon as we reach Bloomsbury, a light spring rain starts. I get out, holding my palm against the mist as it blows in my face and join the groups of tourists streaming toward the museum. It’s only open a few more hours, and I don’t know if it’s always this busy or people are escaping the rain. But, as expected, despite the crowds, I feel alone, maneuvering in and out aimlessly. I halt as a woman dashes in front of me, one hand on a stroller with a sleeping baby inside, the other stretching to catch an escaped toddler. The little boy laughs when her hands close on his arm and draw him back.
“Got you,” she says, earning another giggle from him. She looks up, eyes apologetic. “I’m so sorry.”
I smile, shake my head, and let them continue.
There’s no father in sight. The poor woman is doing double duty while her husband is at work. I feel tired just watching her wheel the carriage around, so she can kneel to lecture the little boy in an unoccupied corner. With the number of priceless artifacts surrounding them, I can’t blame her for being nervous. That’s what Ginny is signing up for: trying to keep up with kids while Malcolm sits in meetings making important decisions with other important people.
I don’t think I could do it. This is what I want. To explore and experience. To see the world and its history. And now that Sterling is gone, I can do that however I want to, whenever I want. No attachments. No responsibilities.
Entering a room full of objects from Ancient Greece, my newfound outlook on life is immediately tested by a couple pausing, hand in hand, to kiss in front of a collection of vases. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She gazes at him in adoration as he whispers something. I turn back the way I came, feeling like a voyeur stealing glimpses of their love story.
Sterling wasn’t the man I thought he was. My father proved that. Even if I wanted to believe that Sterling would never make that video, it’s not like I can ask him. He left without explanation. I wonder if one day the girl in the next room will wake up to find him gone without a goodbye, left to translate his actions. I stop to stare at one of the largest exhibits in this room: the Rosetta Stone. If only I could find Sterling’s master key and unlock him, maybe then I could understand why he did it. Or didn’t do it. Why he left. Why he didn’t say goodbye. But maybe that’s why I’m here, standing in a museum of objects lost to time. Each belonged to someone—someone with a story of their own, someone who loved and lived, someone who made mistakes and choices. It’s comforting to know that it’s all part of some grand, natural design that, in the end, we can’t control. No matter what we think. In the end, we all die. Alone. Why not get used to that now?
The mother with the little boy and baby strolls by and smiles, but it falls from her face when our eyes meet. She points to the stone, “Read that, darling,” she orders the little boy. He tilts his head and stares at it curiously, accepting the challenge. “Are you okay?”
It takes me a moment to realize, she’s speaking to me—and that I’m crying. I swipe at the tears and force a smile. “Fine.”
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” she says, wheeling the stroller over and lifting the baby into her arms. “To think that all this meant something once and now it’s just here for us to press our noses to the glass and gawk at.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I guess