The child standing at his doorway couldn’t have been older than nine. His feet were bare against the polished floor, his jeans ripped, his T-shirt worn thin. In his small hands, Ethan’s spotless white sneakers looked impossibly out of place.
But it wasn’t the poverty that stole Jonathan’s breath.
It was the boy’s eyes.
Warm hazel. Framed by long lashes. Eyes Jonathan had once kissed goodnight ten years ago. Eyes he had been told were closed forever beneath a grave he had never had the courage to visit.
“What’s your name?” Jonathan asked, his voice barely holding together.
“Lucas… Lucas Bennett.”
The crystal tumbler slipped from Jonathan’s hand and shattered across the foyer. Ethan, his six-year-old son, jumped.
“Dad? What happened?”
Jonathan couldn’t answer. He was already a decade back—to a stormy afternoon when his mother had delivered the news.
“Sophia ran off with another man,” Margaret Reed had said coldly. “And two weeks later there was an accident. She’s gone.”
Jonathan had grieved like a man buried alive. He shut down, married without love just to numb the ache. That marriage dissolved within three years. The emptiness never left.