“Just call me Mom, sweetheart. If you can.”
“I’ll try.”
That night, I passed David’s room and heard him laugh for the first time in months.
Grace was sitting beside his bed, holding his hand.
Something in the way they looked at each other made my chest tighten.
There was a story between them.
My dying husband had brought a secret into our home that would outlive him.
The way they looked at each other made my chest tighten.
Grace unpacked her single backpack in the spare room across the hall.
She set a small photo frame face-down on her vanity.
I told myself I would give her time.
I told myself a girl uprooted from wherever she came from deserved patience.
But patience curdled fast in a house full of secrets.
Within a week, I noticed the pattern.
Patience curdled fast in a house full of secrets.
David, who could barely lift a glass of water on his own, found the strength to shuffle down the hall the moment Grace came home from school.
His door would click shut behind her.
Then the murmurs would begin.
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