I almost turned around when I saw the extra cars.

Daniel’s childhood home sat back from the road, large and quiet behind the hedges. I only came to collect a small cardboard box of things I left after the breakup—clothes, two paperbacks, a charger. Nothing important. Still, I walked up the steps and rang the bell.

Harlan Cole opened the door.

He looked the same as the last family dinner I attended: early fifties, tall, solid, silver starting at the temples. The same unreadable eyes. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled. The faint smell of whiskey and cologne came out with him.

“Sophie.” He said my name...