“Maybe she managed well,” I told myself. “Maybe $300 a month goes far here.”
Still, unease followed me as I stepped out of the car with the gifts.
I rang the doorbell.
Laughter drifted from inside.
Children’s laughter.
And a woman’s voice.
A voice that made my blood turn to ice.
I froze. That laugh—light, musical, ending in a soft sigh—I would recognize it anywhere.
“This isn’t real,” I told myself. “You’re exhausted. Grief does this.”
The door opened.
A little boy stood there, no older than four, holding a plastic toy. He stared at me curiously.
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