Behind me, the door creaked open.
“Mom?” Hannah’s voice was small. “Who is it?”
I turned to my daughter, who stood in the hallway clutching the card, her eyes moving between the stranger and me on the porch.
Behind me, the door creaked open.
“Mom, please, the guests are asking about you. Tell me what’s happening.”
I reached for her hand and pulled her gently to my side. Victor stepped just a little closer, no further, holding the small wrapped gift as if it might break.
“Hannah, this is your father. And that card… it was from Luke. He wrote it 13 years ago and asked your dad to give it to you today.”
“Tell me what’s happening.”
Hannah’s mouth opened, but no sound came. She looked down at the card again, reading it slowly, the tears finally spilling.
Victor lowered himself to one knee, right there by the door.
