“Then do it,” she said. “For her. For the baby. Not for me. Prove you mean it.”
Thomas’s shoulders sagged as if someone had finally let the Atlantic weight of his mistakes settle into his bones. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to explain. For once his mouth closed and his hands opened—empty, guilty, ready.
Frank moved with the economy of someone who had rehearsed this exact night a hundred times in his head. “Get what you can together,” he ordered. “Now. We leave in ten.”
Delia was already on autopilot. Her fingers trembled but were precise: a photograph of her mother into a small envelope, prenatal notes folded and tucked into her bag, the single ring Thomas had given her years ago slid into a pocket she intended never to lose. Nothing extravagant. Items that smelled of home, of memory — t
