Something about it felt wrong immediately. Garrett had been the one insisting I come. He had called twice to make sure I hadn’t forgotten. He had even joked about me bringing that pecan pie I only made for holidays and birthdays. Why would Marissa suddenly decide to host coworkers on the same night?
Before I could answer, the phone buzzed again.
A second message.
You weren’t invited to dinner. My wife doesn’t want you there.
For a second I truly thought I had misread it. The words sat on the screen with such bluntness they almost looked fake, like part of some strange prank. Then my heart dropped hard and fast, the way it does when your foot misses a stair in the dark.
I sat down slowly in the armchair by the lamp, still holding the phone.
The room had not changed. The rain had not changed. James was still smiling from the mantel. But the entire shape of my life had shifted by two inches, and at my age that is more than enough to knock a woman sideways.
I looked down at Garrett’s name on the screen.
Not a misunderstanding. Not a wrong number. Not some cruel accident from a stranger.
My son.
My own son.