“I’ve spent years being a coward.”
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“You don’t get to just walk back in, Victor.”
“I know.”
“Hannah doesn’t owe you anything.”
“I know that, too.”
“And Luke isn’t here to hold your hand through this.”
“That’s why I came,” he whispered. “Because he couldn’t be.”
“Hannah doesn’t owe you anything.”
I closed my eyes. I could feel Luke’s presence. My son had planned this. He’d reached across 13 years to put his father on my porch.
Behind me, the door creaked open.
“Mom?” Hannah’s voice was small. “Who is it?”
I turned to my daughter, who stood in the hallway clutching the card, her eyes moving between the stranger and me on the porch.
