The house on Birchwood Lane did not feel like a victory when Dorothy first returned with full custody.
It felt like an aftermath.
Helen Mercer, the new nanny Emmett’s wife had recommended, carried Theodore in one arm and two diaper bags in the other like a woman who had seen every stage of family chaos and had long since stopped dramatizing it. She was fifty-three, practical, kind-eyed, and possessed the soothing confidence of someone who could sterilize bottles while ending a panic attack.
Fletch handled the car seats. Jolene unlocked the front door.
Dorothy stood on the porch with Margot against her chest and looked at the brass house number Colleen had once polished with ketchup because “Pinterest said so, and I refuse to die without proving whether that’s real.”
The memory came with such clarity Dorothy almost expected to hear her daughter laughing from inside.
Instead, when the door opened, the house smelled empty.