That same year, the twins started a small preschool program in town. Caleb cried the first day and refused to let go of Everett's leg. Jonah walked straight in without looking back once, already chasing a toy truck across the room. "Guess we know which one takes after which parent," Naomi said, laughing through her own nerves. By the second week, both boys ran in without a backward glance.
They don't remember any of it. They know their father as the man who burns burgers every summer. And always shows up. Every single time. Without fail.
Someday they'll learn the rest of the story. Not the ugly parts, not right away. Just the part that matters most.
That their mother stood on a gravel shoulder once. Exhausted and alone. And never once lied about who they were.
That the truth, even buried under a year of forged photographs, found its way back. Back to the surface eventually.
