Fifteen years of school pickups, fevers, burnt pancakes, and parent-teacher nights. And this was what it came to.
A cardboard box on my porch on her 18th birthaday
I gripped the edge of the dresser.
Somewhere down the hall, I could hear Lily laughing again. Bright and easy, the way she always did with Rachel.
I stared at that photo, at the man in the suit, and I felt chills. A fear I’d carried quietly for all these years and never once said out loud.
That one day, she’d figure out I was just the guy who signed the papers.
I closed the box. I couldn’t face her yet. Not tonight, not with all these people in the house.
