I wasn’t expecting company.
That morning, I was in survival mode—packing lunches with one hand and unclogging the kitchen sink with the other.
Grace was crying about a missing teddy.
Lily was furious about a crooked braid.
Max was drizzling maple syrup onto the floor like he was signing his name.
And Noah was doing that quiet “I’m not the problem” stare while definitely being the problem.
So when the knock came—sharp, deliberate—I assumed it was a delivery or a neighbor with a complaint.
It wasn’t.
It was a tall man in a charcoal coat.
And behind him, a sleek black Mercedes idled at the curb like it had taken a wrong turn into our cracked-sidewalk reality.
