The second our eyes meet, he looks away.
I notice that too.
It’s not the same look everyone else has been giving me. Not the look people give when someone comes back from the dead.
This is something else.
“All right,” Mum says, stepping in before I can think about it any longer. “That’s enough about social media.”
She turns toward the kitchen.
“I made breakfast. French toast. Your favorite.”
“That’s Dad’s favorite too,” Zara says.
I follow them inside and take a seat at the counter.
“On the bright side,” Mum says, her tone lighter now, “you have three sisters instead of one. And these two are very keen to get to know their big brother.”
Something about that catches for a second.
Three sisters instead of one.
I look at Isla, then Zara.
“I’d like that—getting to know you.”
Zara grins immediately, open and easy. Isla hangs back, studying me like she’s still trying to decide what to make of me.
My thoughts drift back to Charlotte. Where she is right now. What she’s doing. Whether she feels it too—that constant pull beneath everything whenever we’re apart.
I wish she were here, seeing this part of my life.
This is my family.
She’s my wife.
And I still have no idea how those two things are supposed to exist in the same room.
Chapter 27
Charlotte Gallagher
The seatbeside me at the breakfast table is empty.
It’s strange how hard it is to ignore one empty chair. My eyes keep going back to it.
Grandad’s dining room is big, filled with soft morning light. The table is set with a kind of precision that only comes from staff, everything exactly where it should be.
I sit at one end with a cup of coffee, keeping my focus anywhere but that empty chair.
This is the first morning in years without him—if I don’t count the time I ran to the other side of the island because I was convinced he wanted nothing to do with me.
Grandad comes in and takes the seat across from me, coffee in hand. He moves more slowly than I remember, age showing in the careful way he lowers himself into the chair.
I take in the room. Everything is clean and orderly in a way that feels managed, like someone’s been paid to keep it looking this way.
The bowl in the center of the table catches my attention—the same one from last night, refilled. The fruit’s arranged like it’s meant to be looked at, not eaten.
