I closed the terrace door and went inside.

A year later, Phoebe celebrated her sixth birthday at our family ranch — pink balloons, a huge vanilla cake, live music, cousins running across the grass.

Grant carried her on his shoulders, Arthur filmed it, and Ronald wore a paper crown she’d set on his head. Phoebe closed her eyes, blew out six candles, and made a silent wish.

“What did you wish for, sweetie?” I asked.

She looked up with bright eyes. “That you’ll never have to be sad again.”

I pulled her into a hug.