“Don’t.”
Lily dissolved into giggles.
Stephen handed her the package.
“I know you.”
She hugged his legs.
“I know you too.”
Later, after dinner, after pie, after Lily fell asleep beneath the little constellation projector Stephen had given her that first night, he and I stood together on the porch.
The town was quiet.
Harlow’s tallest building was visible in the distance, its red aircraft light blinking steadily against the night.
For years, people in my family had treated truth like something dangerous.
Maybe sometimes it was.
Truth had hurt.
It had complicated memories.
It had forced me to see people I loved as imperfect.
But secrets had done something worse.
They’d taken away choices.
I wouldn’t do that to Lily.
One day, when she was old enough, I would tell her about Claire.
About Gabriel.
About her grandfather.
About mistakes.
About forgiveness that took time.
About the difference between blood and belonging.
