For a moment, they stood that way in the doorway, not husband and wife, not healed, not whole, but two parents held upright by the same impossible hope.
“What if she doesn’t know me?” Megan asked.
Rowan’s eyes burned. “She’s a baby.”
“What if she cries when I hold her?”
“Then we’ll comfort her.”
The word we hung between them.
Megan did not correct him.
The next morning, under Priya’s guidance, they went to the Mercers’ home.
It was a modest brick house on a quiet street lined with maple trees. Wind chimes moved softly on the porch. A small wooden sign near the door read: Music lessons today — please ring gently.
Rowan stood beside Megan, close enough to support her, far enough not to crowd her. Priya and Judge Reed waited near the driveway.
Megan rang the bell.
A woman in her early forties opened the door. She had auburn hair, tired kind eyes, and a soft cardigan dusted with flour. The moment she saw Priya behind them, her smile faded.
