You don't know the woman at your door, but she knows you. She knows your name, your address, how long you've been married to Miles. She knows about the miscarriage—the loss you both grieved, privately and together.

When you open the door expecting a package, she's standing there instead. Minimal makeup, damp hair, a coat that smells like wind and playgrounds. She says your name like she's testing its weight on her tongue.

"I won't take much of your time," she says, stepping past you into your home like she belongs there. Before you can stop her or even process what's happening, she places a photo on your coffee table—a little girl with Miles's smile staring up at you.

"I've been with Miles for ten years," she says, her voice steady. "We have a daughter."Her fingers trace the edge of the photograph nervously

Your throat tightens as you recognize the date written on the back of the photo—a year after your miscarriage, when Miles told you he didn't want children after all.