Page 34 of Knot By Design
“Redevelopment?” I repeat.
“Yeah, the community hall project. You’ve met with the mayor, right? Brighton something?”
“Walter Brighton,” I confirm. “We’ve exchanged emails, but not met yet.”
“Good. Because our PR team’s pushing this as a project to ‘restore small-town heritage,’” he says, fingers making air quotes. “It’s good optics. Makes it look like part of something bigger, not just another development.”
I nod slowly. “So the hall is basically the face of the campaign.”
“Exactly. Once the renovations start, we’ll bring in press. A story about preserving history while creating modern living spaces. You know how the board loves those narratives.”
“Got it,” I say, jotting notes. “I’ll set a meeting with Brighton this week.”
“Perfect. And Dorian—good work on the relocation. I know moving back wasn’t easy.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
When the call ends, I sit for a while, staring at the snow-covered trees outside. The project makes sense on paper—cleaner branding, good press, local goodwill. But part of me can’t shake the thought that we’re dressing up profit as philanthropy.
Still, the cabins will bring jobs. Maybe that’s something.
I check emails, finalize budgets, adjust a few site schedules. The quiet of the house hums around me. The old radiator ticking, the faint wind against the eaves. I should focus, but my mind keeps drifting down the hall.
Mom.
She’s been doing better lately. Some good days, some not. But I can’t be here twenty-four-seven.
I’ve got a cleaning service that comes three times a week, but she needs more than dusting and laundry. She needs someone who can watch for the little things, like missed doses, fatigue, the slow tremor that gets worse when she’s tired.
A caregiver would help. I know that. But it feels like admitting something I’m not ready to face.
I run a hand through my hair and lean back in the chair.
I used to think moving back here was the solution. That I could rebuild both her world and mine at once. But sitting in this house, the snow falling in lazy spirals outside, it hits me—maybe I’ve been patching cracks instead of fixing the foundation.
I left for Portland chasing success, sacrificing my relationship with Norah in the process. I built a life there, and despite what I felt, I told myself I was at least still taking care of Mom from afar.
Paying bills. Checking in. Visiting when I could. But was that enough?
Now I’m here, and she’s down the hall, asleep after breakfast. I’ve redone the house, made it brighter, stronger, and better insulated against winter. And yet... sometimes it still feels cold.
I open another document, numbers and timelines filling the screen. The work steadies me, gives shape to the chaos.
By noon, I’ve reviewed two design proposals and sent out five emails. I check on Mom again. She’s awake, propped against the pillows, reading an old gardening magazine.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How’re you feeling?”
“Like someone who forgot how to sleep in,” she says, smiling.
“Lunch soon. You want soup?”
“That’d be nice.”
I head to the kitchen, heat up some tomato basil, and slice fresh bread. When I bring it back, she’s turned on the TV, watching one of those daytime shows where everyone’s arguing about recipes.
“You really don’t have to wait on me,” she says as I set the tray down.
“I’m not waiting on you. I’m just... making sure you’re okay.”
