“I needed you.”
My mother covered her mouth.
“I needed my mom,” I said. “Not solutions. Not approval. Just you.”
She bowed her head.
My father’s voice came quietly. “Can we meet him?”
I turned. “Who?”
“Noah’s parents.”
My stomach tightened.
Diane and Paul Whitaker still lived two streets over. I knew because I had driven past their house before coming here, slowing just enough to see the white fence and the maple tree Noah used to climb.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“They deserve to know,” my father said.
“I know that.”
“Tomorrow,” my mother whispered. “Before you lose your courage.”
I almost smiled at that, because it sounded like something the old version of her would have said.
The next morning, Ohio woke under a pale gray sky.
Leo ate cereal at my parents’ kitchen table while my mother watched him like he was both miracle and memory. My father stepped outside twice, pretending to check the car, but I knew he was nervous.
I was nervous too.
At ten o’clock, the four of us walked to the Whitakers’ house.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Diane opened the door before we knocked, holding pruning shears and wearing gardening gloves. Her hair, once dark and thick, was mostly silver now. For one second, she smiled politely.
Then she saw me.
“Emma?”
“Hi, Diane.”
The pruning shears slipped from her hand onto the porch mat.
Her eyes moved to Leo.
I watched the realization arrive slowly. Not because anyone had told her, but because grief has a memory sharper than reason. She saw Noah in him before I said a word.
Diane reached for the doorframe.
Paul appeared behind her. “Di? What is it?”
Then he saw Leo too.
His face changed.
No one invited us in. No one needed to.
I stepped forward. “This is Leo,” I said. “He’s Noah’s son.”
Diane made a sound that was almost a sob and almost a laugh. She dropped to her knees in front of Leo, stopping short before touching him.
“May I?” she asked.
Leo looked at me.
I nodded.
He stepped closer, and Diane placed both hands gently on his shoulders.
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, Noah.”
Paul turned away, pressing his fist to his mouth.
My father stood rigid behind us, guilt written into every line of him.
Diane looked up at me. “You were pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And you were alone?”
I nodded.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, there was pain there, but not anger. Not yet.
“Come inside,” she said.
Their house smelled like lemon polish and fresh bread. Photos of Noah lined the hallway. Noah at graduation. Noah with muddy soccer knees. Noah laughing beside a lake.
Leo studied them all with quiet fascination.
Paul brought out a wooden box from a cabinet in the dining room. His hands shook as he set it on the table.
“Noah left this in his room,” he said. “After he passed, Diane couldn’t bear to open it for months. When she finally did, there was a note on top that said it belonged to you.”
My breath caught.
“To me?”
