He looked up at me with wide brown eyes.
The same freckles.
The same dimple.
The same stubborn cowlick that never stayed flat.
“Mommy,” he whispered. “I came home.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Who… who are you?” I asked, gripping the doorframe to stay upright.
He frowned, confused.
“It’s me,” he said softly. “I’m Euan. Why are you crying?”
Hearing his name felt like a punch to the chest.
“My son is gone,” I whispered. “He died.”
“But I’m right here,” he said, his lip trembling. “Why are you saying that?”
He stepped inside like he had done it a thousand times before.
Continue on the next page:
