The chapel smelled like beeswax and regret. I knelt in the third pew from the front—my usual spot at St. Aurora Memorial Chapel—with my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles had gone white. The votive candle I'd just lit for Emma flickered in its red glass holder, casting dancing shadows across the worn wooden rail. New Year's Day had always been our day. Mine and Emma's. A fresh start, a clean slate, all those hopeful clichés people threw around when the calendar flipped. But for the past three years, I'd spent this day alone in this chapel, lighting a candle and whispering prayers to a daughter who couldn't hear me anymore. The sanctuary was nearly empty. An elderly woman in a black shawl murmured her rosary near the altar. A young couple stood by the side entrance, heads bowed together in silent communion. And me, Claire Morrison, twenty-nine years old and feeling ancient, trying to find peace in a place that only reminded me of everything I'd lost. I wasn't just mourning Emma today. I was mourning the life I'd thought we'd have—the three of us. Before Michael left. Before the accident. Before my world shattered into so many pieces I'd stopped trying to count them all. "Just watch over her," I whispered to the candle flame. "Keep her safe. Let her know I love her." The same prayer I said every week. The same desperate plea to a universe that had already taken too much. I stayed there for another twenty minutes, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket. The chapel had become my refuge over the years. No one here knew my story. No one asked questions. I could just exist in my grief without explanation or judgment. Finally, I stood, my knees protesting from the hard kneeler. I made the sign of the cross—more habit than faith these days—and turned toward the exit. That's when I saw her. Dorothy Morrison stood just outside the sanctuary doors, visible through the narrow window. My former mother-in-law wore a navy coat I recognized from years ago, her silver hair pulled back in her signature bun. She was looking right at me, her face pale and anxious. My stomach dropped. I hadn't seen Dorothy in over a year. After Michael left, she'd tried to maintain contact, but every conversation had been excruciating. The careful way she avoided mentioning her son. The pity in her eyes. The unspoken accusation that maybe if I'd been different, better, enough, he wouldn't have abandoned us. I'd eventually stopped returning her calls. Now here she was, on New Year's Day, at the one place I came to escape from everything the Morrison family had put me through. I considered turning around, pretending I hadn't seen her, finding another exit. But Dorothy had already spotted me. She raised one hand in a tentative wave, and I saw her fingers trembling. Whatever brought her here, she was scared. Against my better judgment, I pushed through the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the cold January morning. The sky was that flat gray color that promised snow, and my breath came out in white puffs. "Claire." Dorothy's voice cracked on my name. "I'm so sorry to ambush you like this. I know you come here on New Year's Day. I remembered." Of course she remembered. Dorothy had always been observant, cataloging details about everyone around her. It was one of the things I'd once appreciated about her—how she noticed when you changed your hair or remembered your favorite tea. Now it felt invasive. "What do you want, Dorothy?" I pulled my coat tighter against the wind. "I have to get back. Emma's with the sitter, and I don't like leaving her for too long." "I know. I know." Dorothy twisted the hem of her coat between her fingers, a nervous gesture I'd seen countless times during my marriage to her son. "I wouldn't have come if it wasn't important. I need to talk to you about Michael." The name hit me like a physical blow. I actually took a step backward. "No." The word came out sharp and final. "I don't want to hear about him. Whatever he's doing, wherever he is, I don't care." "He's back," Dorothy said quietly. "He came home three days ago. He's staying at the house." The world tilted slightly. I reached out to steady myself against the chapel's stone wall, the rough surface grounding me. Michael was back. After three years of silence. Three years of no child support, no phone calls, no birthday cards for his daughter. Three years of Emma asking why Daddy didn't love us anymore, and me having no good answer. "Good for him," I managed, though my voice sounded strange and distant. "That has nothing to do with me. We're divorced. He made his choice." "Claire, please." Dorothy took a step closer, and I saw tears gathering in her eyes. "He wants to see Emma. He's been asking about her constantly. He says he's ready to be a father again." The laugh that escaped me was bitter and harsh. "Ready to be a father again? He was never a father in the first place. You don't get to abandon your child when things get hard and then waltz back in when it's convenient." "I know." Dorothy's voice broke. "I know what he did was unforgivable. I told him that. I've barely spoken to him since he left you both. But he's my son, and he's here, and he's talking about lawyers and custody agreements, and I thought—I hoped—maybe if I talked to you first, we could avoid making this ugly." Custody agreements. The words sent ice through my veins. "He wants custody?" I could barely form the words. "Of Emma?" "He says he has rights as her father. He's been seeing a therapist, apparently. Working through his issues. He claims he's different now, that he's ready to step up and be the parent he should have been." I pressed my hand against my mouth, afraid I might scream. Or vomit. Or both. Emma. My beautiful, bright, fragile six-year-old daughter. The child Michael had left behind without a backward glance. The little girl who'd finally stopped crying herself to sleep asking for her daddy. Who'd finally started to heal. And now he wanted to tear open those wounds all over again. "He can't have her," I said, my voice deadly calm. "I don't care what rights he thinks he has. He walked away. He doesn't get to come back." "I understand." Dorothy reached for my hand, but I pulled away. "I'm not saying you should let him see her. I'm just warning you that he's planning to pursue this legally. His lawyer is already drawing up papers." "Let him try." The fury was building now, burning through the shock. "Let him explain to a judge why he abandoned his daughter for three years. Let him explain where he was when she started kindergarten. When she learned to ride a bike. When she—" I stopped myself before I said too much. Some things Dorothy didn't need to know. Some parts of our story belonged only to me and Emma. "I'm sorry," Dorothy whispered. "I wish I could stop him. But he's determined. And Claire, there's something else you should know." The way she said it made my blood run cold. "What?" Dorothy's fingers twisted her coat hem so tightly I thought the fabric might tear. "He's not alone. He brought someone with him. A woman named Vanessa. He says they're engaged."