Rain lashed against the train window as I clutched my duffel bag, watching Harlowe Bay fade into gray mist. Evicted. Unemployed. Alone—except for the letter in my pocket, the one from Jeff’s lawyer offering a job: live-in nanny for his reclusive son. I didn’t believe in miracles. Not after losing Andrew. Not after John vanished beneath those waves trying to save him.

But when the cab pulled up to Seabrook Hall, and the door opened to reveal a boy with sandy hair and freckles across his nose, my heart stopped. He looked up at me, shy, and said, ‘You’re the new nanny?’

I knelt, forcing a smile. ‘Yes. What’s your name?’

‘Andrew.’

My breath caught. It couldn’t be. Twenty-five years. A lifetime. Yet everything—the curve of his lip, the way he tilted his head—was etched in my bones. This was my son. My lost child. And I had no idea what to do next.