No. That wasn’t possible.
My husband’s mother was a woman I’d met once, fifteen years earlier, in a spotless living room that smelled like lemon polish and disapproval. I still remembered her pearls and her posture.
And the way she’d looked from my swollen stomach to her son, like he’d personally humiliated her.
After that, they cut us off. When Ethan was born, they sent no card, no gift, not even a name.
My chair scraped back as I sat.
“We’ll be okay, Dev,” Jeremiah had promised. “I’ll do everything I can to take care of you and our baby.”
When he died, nobody from that family came. Not to the funeral. Not after. No flowers. No calls. Nothing.
And now, I was supposed to believe that the woman next door, the one with the rosebushes, Christmas tins, sharp eyes, and old-fashioned manners, had been her the whole time?
I looked back at the letter.
When he died, nobody from that family came.
“I let pride keep me from my son, and shame kept me from you and Ethan.
Years later, I found where you’d gone. I was a widow with nobody around. I moved nearby because it was the closest I believed I had any right to come.
Then Ethan knocked on my door two winters ago with those cookies you made, and I…
I see my boy in him, Devon. I see Jeremiah.
Please, bring him to me. I’m not going to ask for forgiveness, but I’m going to give you the truth.
— Mrs. W.”
“I see my boy in him, Devon.”
I pressed the heel of my hand to my mouth.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs.
My son came into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Mom? Why are there police cars outside?”
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