Not who is she?
Not why is she here?
Just three quiet words that made the blood drain from my face.
My name is Margaret Bennett, and until that Friday morning, I believed I knew everything important about my son.
Daniel was thirty-four years old.
He had been married once, divorced three years earlier, and had spent the last several years rebuilding his life around his two children—six-year-old twins, Ethan and Emma.
They were bright, affectionate children who had inherited their father’s dark hair and their mother’s stubborn chin.
Daniel was not perfect.
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