Her husband.
My brain scrambled to process that.
Rose’s American life. Her neat, acceptable, socially-approved life.
He thought he was her only partner.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Étienne finished. “How do you tell a man his wife has a daughter in another country?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
You don’t.
You panic.
You hang up.
You protect the child in front of you.
I exhaled slowly, the fight draining out of me.
This wasn’t a villain.
This was a widower trying to protect his daughter from chaos.
My niece.
The word still felt surreal.
I glanced back toward Kane.
He was standing slightly apart, giving space but watching everything. Alert. Protective. A quiet wall at my back.
His eyes met mine.
Steady.
Grounding.
You’re not alone.
The unspoken message threaded through the room.
I turned back to Sabine.
She had climbed onto a kitchen chair and was coloring now, small tongue peeking out in concentration.
Rose had sat at this table.
Had made her breakfast.
Had kissed her forehead before school.
The grief shifted again.
It was no longer just about losing my sister.
It was about the life she’d built without me.
