That night, alone in his office, Matthew pulled an old photo from his phone. Two young men stood laughing in the image, arms around each other outside a rundown diner. The same medal gleamed against the chest of the man beside him.
Aaron Blake. His best friend. His brother in every way that mattered. Aaron had died two years earlier in a crash on a rain soaked highway after calling Matthew for help. Matthew had survived. Aaron had not.
The weight of that truth pressed against his ribs.
Downstairs, Talia scrubbed floors with shaking hands while Ava played beside her, unaware of the storm surrounding her existence. She knew what Matthew had seen. She had known the moment his eyes fell on the medal.
Aaron had worn it always. He had traced the letters with his thumb when he spoke about the future, about having a child, about naming her Ava because it meant life. Denise confronted Talia the next morning, her questions sharp and unyielding, digging into the past, into Aaron, into the medal.
Later, Matthew called Talia into the dining room. “Tell me the truth,” he said quietly.
Talia told him everything. They sat in silence afterward, grief stretching between them like an open wound.