No knock. No doorbell. No sound of a car pulling away. Just… there. As if it had always belonged.
The first time, I told myself it had to be a mistake. A delivery gone wrong. Someone else’s surprise, someone else’s life brushing briefly against mine.
But when I picked up the small card tucked between the white lilies, something in me tightened.
“Thank you for raising my son.”
No name. No number. Nothing else.
I stood there longer than I should have, reading the same line over and over, not because I didn’t understand it—but because I did.
I only had one son.
Harris. Twenty-four. My son.
So who, exactly, was thanking me?
