Rosalie looked smaller and more fragile than I had ever seen her, her dark hair tied back in a messy knot, no makeup, none of the vibrant energy she carried into every room.

When she opened her eyes and saw me at the foot of her bed, her weary sadness turned to disbelief.

“You actually came,” she whispered.

“The hospital called my direct line,” I said, stepping closer.

“You listed me as his father.” Tears welled in her hazel eyes.

“Because you are his father, Alexander.”

Chapter 5 — How Many Closed Doors

I pulled a small wooden chair to her bedside and sat, a heavy weight settling in my chest.