“Yes, all four,” I replied.
“They’re lovely,” she said. “Beautiful. I can tell they’re being raised with love.”
Her hand rested briefly on my forearm — not for balance, but for connection.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Lucas,” I said.
She nodded slowly, as if engraving it into memory.
“Lucas… thank you.”
And then she turned, the ring clenched tight, and disappeared around the corner.
We paid for our groceries — every last item squeezed into the final $50 in my account — and headed home.
I thought that was the end of it.
It wasn’t. Not even close.
The next morning was the usual symphony of cereal spills, lost scrunchies, and tangled ponytails. Max spilled orange juice across his homework. Grace mashed berries between her fingers. Noah couldn’t find his baseball glove, and Lily was near tears over her “lumpy and sad” braid.
I was making sandwiches when someone knocked at the door.
It wasn’t casual. It was sharp, deliberate.
All four kids froze.
“I hope it’s not Gran,” Noah muttered.
“We’re not expecting Gran,” I said, amused. “Watch Grace, okay?”
I wiped my hands and opened the door.
A tall man in a charcoal coat stood on the porch. Behind him, a sleek black Mercedes idled at the curb.
“Lucas?” he asked.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
