One Sunday afternoon, sitting on the back patio while Juniper played in the yard, Philippa turned to me with a cup of tea in her hands.

“Do you ever regret knowing?” she asked softly, her eyes searching mine.

“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been kinder if Clement had taken it all to his grave, the way we planned.”

I reached over and squeezed her hand.

“Clement didn’t only give me a father,” I said, looking out at the sunlit grass.

“In his final hour, he gave me my mother back.