I called a taxi.

Alone.

In the back seat, soaked through my black dress, I watched the cemetery fade behind a curtain of rain. I didn’t cry. Not when the driver panicked at a red light. Not when the pain tore through me. Not when I reached the hospital with no one waiting, no one holding my hand.

At 2:17 a.m., my son arrived.

He had Samuel’s dark hair and my stubborn lungs.

I named him Elias.

Twelve days later, Vivian rang my doorbell.

She arrived in pearls, perfume, and entitlement. Derek stood behind her, holding a stuffed bear with the price tag still attached.

Vivian smiled as though the funeral had never happened.

“I’ve come to see my grandchild.”

I looked at her. Then at Derek. Then at the blinking security camera above my door.

“Which grandchild?”

Her smile faltered.

Derek frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I opened the door just enough for them to see my lawyer seated at my dining table, three folders in front of her, a silver pen, and a face carved from stone.

“It means,” I said quietly, “you should have been kinder in the rain.”….

Part 2

Vivian pushed past me anyway.

That was her first mistake.

“Where is he?” she demanded, her eyes sweeping my home as if she already owned it. “Where is Samuel’s son?”