I do not remember standing.
I do not remember reaching the stage.
I only remember holding all three of my daughters while the framed court order pressed between us.
Three weeks later, I stood inside the apartment above Finch & Nail Hardware.
Emmett had long since transferred ownership of the shop to me.
Mrs. Fenwick had moved into a smaller cottage nearby, though she still arrived unannounced and criticized my cooking.
I hung two frames on the wall beside the window.
On the left was Callan’s gas receipt.
I’m sorry, Reid. I can’t do this.
On the right were the adoption documents.
For two decades, I had described raising the girls as a sacrifice.
I sacrificed money.
Time.
Sleep.
Travel.
The chance to build another kind of family.
But standing between those two frames, I finally understood.
It had not been a sacrifice.
It was my life.
The life I had chosen on an October porch while a six-month-old baby held my finger.
And somewhere along the way, that life had chosen me back.
I sat on the futon.
It still did not unfold properly.
Then I picked up my phone and scrolled to a number I had not called in twelve years.
Seraphine.
My thumb hovered above it.
For years, I had believed there was no room for anyone else.
But the girls had grown.
They had built lives of their own.
And for the first time, I wondered whether staying for them did not have to mean remaining alone forever.
I pressed the call button before fear could stop me.
She answered after the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Seraphine?”
Silence.
Then her voice softened.
“Reid?”
“Yes.”
“Is everything all right?”
I looked at the two frames.
“Yes,” I said.
“For the first time in a very long while, I think it might be.”
There was another pause.
“What do you want, Reid?”
