Marcus drew a deep, ragged breath as the baby settled against the faded cotton of his scrub top.

“Thirty years,” Marcus whispered, pressing his cheek against the baby’s dark hair.

“Thirty years of mailing birthday cards to an address where Eleanor paid the rural mail carrier to stamp them Return to Sender.”

I pressed my left thumb hard into my palm, feeling the dull ache in my knuckles instead of letting the grief take my breath away.

“He chose her money,” I said quietly.

“He knew what she did, and he chose to stay.”