When I arrived at Daniel’s house that afternoon, the front door was ajar, the old brass
knob gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and a hint of something else, something sweet and metallic, like the lingering scent of a candle that had long since burned out.
Emily ran to me first, her small hands clutching a stuffed rabbit that was missing an ear. “Mummy!” she squealed, the word slipping out with the enthusiasm only a four‑year‑old can muster.
Grace, a little taller, followed with a shy smile, her curls bouncing as she stepped. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, the nickname
Daniel had given me because “Auntie” felt less formal than “step‑mom” and more like a bridge between the two worlds we were building.
Daniel emerged from the kitchen, his hair a little longer than the day before, a few strands falling over his forehead. He wrapped his arms around the girls, then turned to me, his eyes soft but carrying the weight of a man who had been alone for too long. “Thanks for taking them,” he said, his voice low. “I owe you one.”
