Wendy Vance.

The woman my husband had told me, four years ago, was dead.

The woman he had claimed, when I asked about his family early in our relationship, had passed away, leaving him with no living relatives, alone in the world but for me.

I stared at her, this impossible woman standing in the doorway of my hospital room, and then I looked down at my sleeping daughter, at Fiona’s distinct, deep-set hazel eyes, just beginning to flutter, at the small dimple in her cheek, and then back up at the stranger in the doorway, who had those same deep-set eyes, that same set to her face.

And every bit of warmth vanished from the room.