“This is for you,” I said, thrusting it at him. While he carefully undid the wrapping, I resumed the fanning of my eyes. “What is it?” he asked, flipping over the frame. He went statue still, looking like he’d been carved from marble by a besotted sculptor. It was a picture from this summer of me, Maeve, Mom, and Chloe on the front porch. Lucian was grinning in the middle, his arms around us protectively. Beneath the photo was a slip of paper. The last text my dad had sent him. If I could have chosen a son in this lifetime, it would have been you. Take care of my girls.
