As I scrolled through her social media posts, I stumbled upon one from five years ago:she had accidentally hit someone with a vehicle and had been plagued by nightmares ever since.
Jeremiah, ever the savior, had spent a fortune tracking down reclusive healers just to help her sleep soundly.
My grip on the phone tightened, fingers curling until my knuckles turned pale.
The most recent post showed that just past midnight, Jeremiah had accompanied Margaret to celebrate an anniversary.
It read, [Still the cherished little princess. Someone said a surprise is waiting for me tonight. I’m thrilled!]
The photo showed Jeremiah clumsily baking a cake, dressed in a soft pink apron. Cream coated his sleeves, smudged across his shirt, and splattered all over the counter, a chaotic scene wrapped in affection.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced.
I remembered the time I’d been sick and too weak to get up and had asked him to make me a simple bowl of cereal.
But he had only frowned and muttered, “I’m a grown man. How would I know how to make that stuff? Just hold out. Or order something, I guess.”