Julian stared at the screen for a long, agonizing time. His chest heaved. He reached out, his thick finger hovering just millimeters above the glass, tracing the outline of his son’s face without actually touching it. He made a sound—a low, broken noise in the back of his throat—and buried his face in his arms right there on the diner table, weeping with the kind of absolute devastation that breaks a person in half.

I didn’t reach across to comfort him. I couldn’t. I was drowning in my own ocean of regret. If I had just gotten out of the car. If I had just walked up those three flights of stairs thirty years ago and handed him that photograph. We wouldn’t be sitting in a rundown diner, mourning the ghost of a life we were supposed to share.

When Julian finally sat up, his eyes were red and swollen. He pushed the phone gently back to my side of the table.

“He’s beautiful,” he said. “He looks strong.”

“He is.”

Julian wiped his face with a paper napkin. “I won’t blow up his life, Chloe. I swear to God. I won’t suddenly appear and demand to be his father. I lost that right when I got on that plane, no matter what Rachel lied about.”

“Julian—”

“No,” he interrupted, his tone firming up. “He’s getting married. He has a life. You built that for him. You did that. But…” He swallowed hard. “I own the antique shop on 8th. I live in the apartment above it.

I’m not leaving. I just… I want to be in the same city as him. I just want to know that when the wind blows through Chicago, it might be heading this way, coming from where he is.”

We walked out to the parking lot together as the rain finally stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflective. We stood awkwardly by my car, two strangers who shared the most intimate bond humanly possible.

He didn’t hug me. He just looked at me with those familiar hazel eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “For keeping him. And for not throwing away the record.”

I watched him walk down the street, his shoulders a little less hunched than before. I got into my car, locked the doors, and sat in the silence. I picked up my phone and dialed my son’s number.

It rang three times before Liam answered. “Hey Mom, everything okay?”

I closed my eyes, listening to the pitch of his voice, hearing the echo of the man who had just walked away.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said, my voice finally steady. “Do you have some time to talk?

There’s a story I need to tell you. From a long time ago.”