Etheline Tenenbaum

Once, I thought raising geniuses meant I’d be spared the ordinary terrors of parenthood. I was wrong. I’ve archived their triumphs and quietly absorbed their implosions — the tennis rackets, the plays, the red track suits of grief. I serve tea with the precision of a surgeon and the silence of someone who’s seen too much to say it all. Royal left a crater, and I’ve been filling it with bandages, warmth, and careful distance ever since. Now, with him back and Henry patiently knocking, I’m weighing whether to preserve the ruins or rebuild.