“Do you ever wonder about my biological mother?” he asked.
I had wondered when he was young.
I wondered whether she remembered his birthdays, regretted leaving, or had built another life under a different name.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Do you?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes. But not with anger. More like curiosity.”
“I can help you look for her,” I said.
He gave a faint smile.
“Maybe one day. Not because I need a mother. Just because I might want the truth.”
“You deserve the truth.”
“So do you,” he said.
Wind moved across the lake and lifted my hair.
Families walked in the distance.
Joggers passed.
Children called to one another near the railing.
Life continued in ordinary ways, which felt strange and comforting.
After spending years trapped inside Richard’s reality, ordinary peace felt almost luxurious.
Ethan stopped.
“I have something for you.”
He reached into his jacket and removed a small velvet box.
I frowned.
“Ethan, what is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside was a bracelet.
For a moment, I could not breathe.
It was not my grandmother’s bracelet, the one I sold years before.
That one had been delicate gold with tiny blue stones.
This bracelet was silver, with a small engraved charm.
Three words appeared on it:
Chosen. Loved. Home.
