Chapter 10 — The Room That Became Mireille’s Only If She Wanted It
Therese answered cautiously.
“Change what?”
Garrick looked around Mireille’s bedroom at Bellgrave.
It had been decorated before she was old enough to choose anything.
Pink wallpaper.
Antique bed.
Family portraits.
A brass plaque on the door:
MIREILLE VALE — BELLGRAVE NURSERY SUITE.
Garrick had ordered the plaque himself.
At the time it seemed loving.
Now he saw something else.
A claim.
“Her room.”
Therese frowned.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s the problem.”
Therese laughed slightly.
“I don’t understand.”
Garrick explained.
Everything in the room had been chosen by adults.
Mostly him.
He wanted to remove the formal nursery plaque.
Then, if Mireille wanted, let her choose what belonged there.
“You’re asking me?” Therese said.
Garrick paused.
“Actually, I should ask her.”
Therese smiled.
“Correct.”
Garrick sighed.
“I’m learning.”
Mireille came to the phone.
“Grandpa?”
“Hello.”
“I found big shell.”
Garrick smiled.
“I heard.”
Then he asked about the room.
Mireille immediately said:
“Can wall be green?”
Garrick stared at the pink wallpaper.
“Green?”
“Yes.”
“Very green?”
“Very.”
Therese laughed in the background.
Garrick nodded to himself.
“Then we’ll look at green when you visit.”
“Not paint without me.”
He smiled.
“I promise.”
After the call, he removed the brass plaque himself.
He did not replace it.
When Mireille returned three weeks later, she chose a small wooden sign.
MIREILLE’S ROOM WHEN I’M HERE.
Garrick laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Therese loved it.
The room eventually became aggressively green.
Mireille selected yellow curtains that Garrick privately hated.
He said nothing.
Then she filled one shelf with shells.
Bellgrave became more genuinely hers after Garrick stopped insisting it already was.
Visits became easier too.
When Therese arrived, Garrick did not immediately ask how many nights they were staying.
When Mireille packed, he did not joke about escape.
If a suitcase appeared near the door, he said:
“Need help carrying it?”
Sometimes Mireille said yes.
Sometimes no.
Both answers were accepted.
Several months later, Garrick asked Therese if he could keep a copy of Lucien’s letter.
Therese hesitated.
Then said:
“The original stays with me.”
Garrick nodded.
“Fair.”
“You may have a copy.”
He framed nothing.
Displayed nothing.
He kept it inside his desk.
Sometimes he reread the final paragraph:
If you make every departure feel like rejection, eventually she may stop wanting to return.
That sentence became the rule he used whenever old fear returned.
Then, nearly a year after the suitcase argument, Mireille did something Garrick once would have considered proof that Bellgrave had finally become her true home.
Instead, he understood it completely differently.
She arrived carrying a suitcase.
And this time she had packed it because she wanted to stay.