Not once.
No birthdays.
No holidays.
Nothing.
Until three weeks ago.
That afternoon I was watering the roses when a black sedan pulled up outside my gate.
Vanessa stepped out.
She looked almost exactly the same as she had ten years earlier—just more polished.
A man in a suit stepped out beside her.
A lawyer.
She didn’t ask how the boys were.
She didn’t even look toward the house.
Instead, she handed me a thick envelope.
“Custody papers,” she said calmly.
My heart dropped.
Later that evening, after the boys had gone upstairs, Vanessa cornered me in the kitchen.
She leaned against the counter like we were discussing business.
Which, apparently, we were.
