When I woke up, the morning light was already streaming through the curtains. Noise floated up from downstairs—voices, laughter, the clink of cups. I dragged myself out of bed and headed down, still numb from the night before.
The moment I stepped into the living room, I froze.
There, seated comfortably on the center sofa, was Francis.
He looked exactly as I remembered—taller, perhaps, more mature, but still with that easy charm that made people gravitate toward him. Elise was curled up in his arms, her face lit with adoration. She clung to him like he was her entire world.
My parents hovered nearby. My mother, who'd spent the last ten years raising her voice at me for every tiny thing, now fluttered around Francis like he was a long-lost prince. My father, always stern and aloof, had a rare softness in his eyes.
"You—you heartless thing," my mother said, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Not one phone call in ten years. Were you trying to kill us with worry?"
My father gently tugged at her sleeve. "What's done is done. He's back now. Let's just be thankful for that."
Across from them sat Sara.