He reached back into the cab and lifted Ethan’s car seat with his other hand, carrying it effortlessly.

We walked up the shoveled porch steps, the cold air stinging my cheeks.

Inside, the house smelled of old paper, coffee, and lavender soap.

It was small, but the living room was warm and filled with soft light from a bay window.

In the corner stood a beautiful, hand-carved wooden crib, its white paint looking fresh and clean.

“I built that for Ryan when he was born,” Thomas said softly, setting the car seat down near the sofa. “I kept it in the basement all these years. I brought it up yesterday and gave it a fresh coat of non-toxic paint.”

I ran my hand along the smooth railing of the crib, my eyes stinging.

“Thank you, Thomas,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

“Sit down, Emma. You’ve been on your feet too long.”

I collapsed onto the worn plaid sofa, pulling a knitted blanket over my legs.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

It was an email notification.

I opened it, expecting another threat from Margaret.