Every conversation ended the same way.
The day Lucas was born, a doctor entered the waiting room and sat beside me.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We did everything we could.”
I stared at him.
“The baby?”
“He’s alive.”
Then he paused.
“He’s going to need you.”
My daughter never came home.
My grandson did.
For the next ten years, it was just the two of us.
Lucas grew into a curious, sweet boy who loved baseball, Sunday pancakes, and one question I could never answer.
“Grandma, who was my dad?”
“I don’t know.”
And now I had a letter from Teagan in my coat pocket.