But Daniel called me.
Daniel opened the door.
And Daniel, in his arrogance, ordered me through it.
A shadow fell across the kitchen doorway.
I knew it was him before I turned.
Daniel stood there without the ring box, without Abigail, without the effortless arrogance that had once made rooms rearrange around him.
He looked at the children like a starving man looking at bread through glass.
“Can I talk to them?” he asked.
The kitchen quieted.
Noah licked frosting from his thumb. Sophia closed her book halfway. Ethan watched Daniel’s hands. Olivia looked from me to Margaret.
“Not alone,” I said.
Daniel swallowed. “Fine.”
He stepped into the kitchen as though entering unfamiliar territory.
It occurred to me then that Daniel Reynolds had faced armed conflict overseas, political briefings, disciplinary boards, and command decisions that could alter lives.
But he had never looked more frightened than he did approaching four eight-year-olds with frosting on their sleeves.
