“Yesterday morning,” Addison answered simply. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
No child should ever be forced to say those words.
“What’s your sister’s name?” Graham asked.
“Hazel,” she replied, her voice softening immediately. “She’s eight months old.”
Graham swallowed hard.
“And your mother?” he asked next. “What was her name?”
Addison paused, lowering her eyes. “Marianne Pierce. She sewed dresses at home. She passed away last winter. Pneumonia.”
Graham’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Marianne.
The name hit him like a blow.
This wasn’t chance.
“Did your mother have a mark like yours?” he asked quietly.
Addison nodded. “In the same place. She always hid it. Said people stared.”
Graham shut his eyes.
For years, he had convinced himself his sister chose to vanish—that she rejected his life, his success, his need to control everything. He had buried the guilt beneath wealth and expansion.
And now her children stood at his gates—hungry, without a home, and afraid.
“She said you were her brother,” Addison added carefully, without blame. “She said you were very important. Very busy. She told us not to bother you.”
The words cut deeper than any accusation Graham had ever faced.