The woman who, that very morning, had held me at the cemetery and whispered into my hair, “You are never going to be alone, Clara.”

“Whose baby is it?” I asked, though some cold part of me already knew.

Julian’s mouth curved into something almost proud.

“Mine.” And then, as if he were sharing good news, as if he expected me to be glad for him: “I get another chance to be a father.

After everything that happened, I feel like fate is giving me a fresh start.”

Everything that happened. That was the phrase he used.