It was a blocked number.
I knew who it was. My father, calling from a prison payphone. He called once a month, begging for money for the commissary, begging for forgiveness, claiming he was a changed man. My mother wrote letters I never opened. Erica was silent, rotting in her cell.
Michael saw the phone ringing. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t tell me what to do. He never did. He just waited.
I looked at the phone. I thought about the little girl I used to be, desperate for their approval, desperate for them to love me as much as they loved Erica.
Then I looked at my beautiful daughter. I looked at the way she felt safe in my arms. I looked at my husband—the man who had stood between me and the monsters, the man who had burned down a forest to save a single flower.
I realized that family isn’t about blood. It’s about who bleeds for you. It’s about who protects you.
I picked up the phone. I pressed the “Decline” button. Then, I went into the settings and blocked the number permanently.
I put the phone down and turned back to the sunset.
Michael smiled, handing me a glass. “Who was it?” he asked softly.
I took a sip of the lemonade, the tart sweetness bursting on my tongue. I kissed Emma’s forehead, breathing in her scent of milk and baby powder.
“No one,” I said, leaning my head against his shoulder. “Just a ghost.”
