Ten whole years had passed since the night she abandoned my grandsons on my doorstep.
And now she wanted them back.
Ten years earlier, my life had shattered in the middle of the night.
Two police officers knocked on my door at two in the morning.
I already knew something was wrong the moment I saw their faces.
They told me my only son, David, had died in a car accident. The road was wet. His car had skidded and hit a guardrail.
He was gone instantly.
His wife, Vanessa, had been in the passenger seat. She survived with only minor injuries.
For two days I moved through the world like a ghost—planning a funeral, answering calls, trying to accept that my son was gone.
Then, two days after the funeral, someone rang my doorbell.
When I opened the door, I saw two small boys standing there in dinosaur pajamas.
Jeffrey and George.
My two-year-old twin grandsons.
