THE POOR FLOWER GIRL FOUND THREE BABIES IN THE RAIN… AND HAD NO IDEA THEY WERE A BILLIONAIRE’S LOST SONS You are seven years old when the rain starts to feel personal.

It does not fall from the sky like a normal storm. It needles through the holes in your sweater, slips under your collar, soaks your shoes until your socks squish against the insides of your sneakers, and turns the cardboard sleeve around your wilted daisies into mush. By the time the last traffic light on Marigold Avenue flickers from red …