“There was no body,” Rebecca whispered. “They told us she died in the smoke.”
Grace stood silent, eyes wide. “You think I’m… yours?”
Rebecca knelt carefully, keeping distance. “We don’t know yet. But we hope. More than anything.”
Grace looked at them as if trying to recognize something. A smile. A familiar expression.
“You both cry the same,” she said quietly.
Michael laughed through tears.
A DNA test was arranged that very afternoon. The wait felt longer than the eight years before it. Rebecca barely slept. Michael paced their mansion like a prisoner awaiting judgment.
Three days later, the call came.
A match.
One hundred percent.
Grace—small, guarded, fierce Grace—was Abigail Anderson.
Rebecca collapsed into Michael’s arms, sobbing with relief so overwhelming it felt painful. Michael wept openly for the first time since the fire.
When they returned to the shelter, Grace was sitting on the steps, chin lifted stubbornly.
“So?” she asked.
Michael knelt in front of her. “You’re our daughter.”
Grace didn’t react immediately. She stared at him, searching for lies.
Rebecca stepped closer. “We never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”
Grace’s lips trembled. “Why didn’t you come?”