Our parents had opinions about everything.
Career. Timing. Stability. Appearances.
A baby in Paris with a man none of us had met? While she’d been married to Randy?
Yes. There would have been a family summit.
And Rose had always hated confrontation.
“She didn’t want to fight,” he continued. “She wanted peace. She wanted this.”
He gestured around the apartment.
Sabine had wandered toward the kitchen, humming softly to herself, unaware of the tectonic plates shifting in the adults’ lives.
I pressed my hand to my chest.
I should have known.
There had been clues.
The way Rose avoided FaceTime sometimes. The way she deflected personal questions. The way she always seemed slightly tired but said it was “jet lag.”
Jet lag.
God.
“She was going to tell you,” Étienne said suddenly.
I looked up sharply.
“What?”
“She said she couldn’t hide it forever. That Sabine deserved family. That you deserved to know.”
A fresh wave of grief crashed into me.
Too late.
She had been planning to tell me.
And then she died.
The unfairness of it burned.
“You should have called,” I said quietly.
Étienne’s eyes filled.
“I tried.”
The words sliced through my anger.
“What?”
“I tried to call her parents. I had the number. She kept it in case of emergency.” His voice broke slightly. “But when I heard her husband answer …”
The air shifted.
