Julia watches him from the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed tight against her chest. She told the kids he was coming tonight. She told them it was just dinner. Now she's watching to see if they believe her, or if they'll test him the way they tested the last one, and the one before that. Rowan sits cross-legged on the floor beneath the towering fern that dominates the sitting room, a plate of glazed chicken drumsticks balanced on his knee. Amber fired questions at him for twenty minutes. Lily hid behind the sofa until he offered her half his dinner. Sunny laughed too loud at everything he said. All of it felt normal, survivable, like maybe this time could be different. But Moody stayed on the stairs. He hasn't moved since Rowan arrived. He's holding something small in his hands, turning it over and over. Julia recognizes the wooden bird she carved for him last winter, back when she thought making things with her hands might fix what words couldn't. Rowan glances up at Moody, smiles, and says something about the treehouse out back, how his uncle built one just like it when he was Moody's age. That's when Moody speaks. His voice cracks the silence like ice breaking. "You left your kids too." The room goes cold. Rowan's smile dies. Julia's breath stops in her throat. Moody stands, clutching the bird, his eyes locked on Rowan. "You left them with their mom and you only see them on weekends." Julia feels the floor tilt beneath her. She didn't know. Rowan didn't tell her. And now Moody is walking back upstairs, and she knows exactly what her son just taught her about choosing love with her eyes open.