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Harrison Hargreeves. It's done. Legal, registered, on paper.

I've been sitting here trying to work out what I feel and the honest answer is: right. It feels right. Not triumphant, not painful, not complicated. Just — right, the way a thing feels when it's true.

Whatever he was. Whatever that house was. Whatever was done and not done and meant and not meant — that's what made me. It seemed dishonest to carry a name that had nothing to do with it. Green, it means nothing to me, no connection and no meaning. So why hide behind it.

I keep writing sentences about him and stopping them. That's been true for years. I don't know if it'll ever not be true. I'm starting to think that might be fine — that some things don't resolve, they just become part of the furniture, and you arrange your life around them and eventually you stop noticing how much space they take up.

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