Mason knelt down beside her. “Go on, pick one. They’re for you.”
Her face lit up instantly. “Thank you!”
Spencer turned to me with a warm smile. “You’re raising a good one, Catherine.”
I placed my hand on Mason’s shoulder. “He gets it from his dad. Ethan never did anything halfway.”
As I watched the children hug their new bears, something inside me began to lift.
Spencer showed Mason their sewing corner—an old machine, worn quilts, and bins of fabric scraps. Mason’s eyes sparkled.
“You sew here? Really?”
Spencer chuckled. “We try, but nothing fancy.”
“Maybe I could help sometime?” Mason asked.
“We’d love that. Some of the older kids would too!”
On the drive home, Mason was quiet—but it was a different kind of quiet. He gazed out the window, absentmindedly turning the button on his sleeve.
“Did you have fun, son?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I really did.”
That night, I found a small teddy bear resting on my pillow. It was made from Ethan’s fishing shirt.
“That’s for you, Mom. So you’re not lonely at night.”
I pulled him into a tight embrace, tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you, baby.”
For the first time in months, I truly believed we were going to be okay.
Wednesday morning shattered that fragile peace with loud pounding at the front door.
I jolted awake, my heart racing. The early sunlight barely filtered through the blinds. Outside, two sheriff’s cruisers and a dark town car were parked in the driveway.
