Chapter 2: For Daddy
Along the far wall, half-hidden behind a stack of storage boxes, was a second car.
Not Brian's truck.
A small red car I had never seen before — with a child's booster seat strapped in the back.
My legs nearly gave out.
I walked closer.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.
I pressed my face to the window.
There were crayon drawings on the floor.
A tiny sneaker wedged under the seat.
And tucked into the cup holder — a folded piece of paper with a child's handwriting on the front.
It said: *For Daddy.*
I couldn't breathe.
I pulled out my phone and called Brian.
He answered on the second ring, cheerful as always.
"Hey, how are you feeling?
Vision still improving?"
I couldn't speak for a moment.
"Brian," I finally said.
"Whose car is in our garage?"
Silence.
Then — very quietly — he said, "What are you doing in the garage?"
Not *what car.* Not *I can explain.*
Just: *What are you doing in the garage.*
That's when I knew.
May you like
He had never expected me to see any of this.
What Brian said next made me drop my phone.
