“She was my sister.”
Claire nodded through tears. “And Noah?”
“My nephew.”
She looked toward his bedroom. “He doesn’t need another disaster.”
“I’m not here to take him.”
She was my sister.
“Then why are you here?”
“My family spent decades deciding silence was easier than truth. I’m done doing that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Groceries. School pickups. Dinner. Whatever helps.”
“And if Noah doesn’t want a new aunt?”
“Then I’m just Emma’s mom who makes too much mac and cheese.”
He doesn’t need another disaster.
Claire laughed through her tears. “Grace would have liked you.”
“What was she like?”
“Stubborn. Funny. Terrible singer.”
“Did she hate Dad?”
“No. I think she spent most of her life wishing he’d been braver.”
I’m just Emma’s mom.
***
A few days later, Noah noticed Dad’s photograph at dinner. “Who’s that?”
“My father.”
