Serena’s hand froze halfway between the brass door knocker and her cream coat.
Wesley saw the folder first.
Not the porch light. Not my face. Not the cup of tea I had set carefully on the little table beside the door.
The folder.
It sat tucked under Lydia’s arm, thick enough to bend the corner of her navy blazer. My son’s name was printed across the tab in my handwriting, the same handwriting that had signed his school permission slips, college checks, car insurance forms, mortgage guarantees, and every rescue he had learned to call temporary.
WESLEY.
Serena’s eyes moved from the folder to Lydia’s face.
“Why is she here?” she asked.
Her voice was low and clean. No panic yet. Serena always reached for control before she reached for truth.
