“Your mother would’ve liked that answer.”

I watched Paisley lift her arms toward me from across the lawn, her face bright with recognition.

I stood, crossed the grass, and scooped her up carefully.

The old tenderness in my scar had faded, but the memory of what it taught me remained.

A year earlier, I had believed asking for help meant I had failed.

Now I knew it could be the first honest thing I did for myself and my child.

PART 24: Twenty-Seven Minutes