“I can see that,” Denise answered.

“And I want to help you stay informed.”

I nodded toward the hallway.

“Her father is the one who left.”

There was no satisfaction in saying it.

I had loved Lucas for thirty-six years.

No one knew the soft, unguarded side of him better than I did.

He had helped me carry groceries when I was pregnant with Mason, fixed my leaking roof after a storm, and sent silly videos to cheer me up when I couldn’t sleep.