squeezed my hand.
Sunlight moved slowly across the yard outside.
For the first time in a year, my life felt quiet.
Not repaired.
Not normal.
But honest.
Maybe that was better.
Then the doorbell rang.
Mom frowned.
“Expecting someone?”
“No.”
I walked toward the front door.
For one absurd second, I remembered that morning.
Mom holding her hospital bag.
Vanessa with her iced coffee.
The sentence that started everything.
Not my problem.
I opened the door.
A young woman stood on the porch.
Maybe twenty-six.
Dark hair.
Nervous eyes.
An old photograph clutched in her hand.
“David Cole?”
“Yes?”
She swallowed.
“My name is Rachel.”
“Okay.”
She glanced past me toward the hallway.
Then back.
“I’m sorry to show up like this.”
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
She held out the photograph.
It showed a younger Richard Vale standing beside a woman I had never seen.
Rachel’s next words made
