She sucked in a sharp, hissing breath. “I’m sorry. She doesn’t make exceptions. Though I have the name of a fantastic pediatric pulmonologist—”

“Martin, Craig, Lorenz, Rogers, McIssanson, Goldmen,” I listed. “We’ve seen them all. And each one has assured me that Mills is the best.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reese.”

Shit, back to my last name. I was losing traction.

Gentling my voice, I turned the charm on. “What if you schedule me a consult and I’ll ask her myself? Could you be a dear and do that for me?”

“No. I can’t be a dear and do that for you,” she clipped.

Okay. Too much charm. Time to reel it back in.

“Perhaps I could make a monetary donation.” I had plenty of money. Plenty meaning I could afford private tutors, nice daycares, and impromptu family vacations. Though constructing a hospital wing in Dr. Mills’s honor was pretty much off the table. Unless they accepted a payment plan—for individual bricks.

“We don’t accept bribery, either,” she said dryly. “Look, Dr. Laughlin is Dr. Mills’s partner. He has a few openings. I could probably get your son on his schedule.”

“Ugh.” I groaned. “I’ve heard terrible things about him.”

She didn’t immediately reply, and it took several seconds for the memory of her last name to hit me.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and mouthed a string of expletives to myself. “I mean…I’m sure he’s an amazing—”

“No, you were pretty much spot-on the first time. He’s my soon-to-be ex-husband.”

A blast of relief surged through me. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Listen, I really want the best for your son. But I’ve known Dr. Mills for a lot of years. And she does not treat children. No exceptions. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have—”

My stomach dropped. “Please don’t hang up,” I rushed out, my anxiety climbing. “We’ve done the breathing treatments and inhalers. But nothing seems to keep him out of the hospital anymore. He’s getting weaker, and the other pulmonologists expect us to accept that this is how things are going to be for him. But I’m not quitting on my son. I need Dr. Mills. Please. He’s eleven, but he’s never been able to be a kid. Help me give him that.”

“Porter,” she sighed.

Back to first names.

“Rita, all I’m asking is that you let me talk to her. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything. Right.”

But I’d never been more serious in my life. I was sick and tired of watching my son waste away. I needed that appointment.

“You like steak, Rita?”

“Uhh….”

I blew out a hard breath and grasped at the only card I had up my sleeve—a silly two of clubs. “I own a restaurant. You get me in with Dr. Mills and I’ll get you free steaks for life.”

I expected her to laugh. Maybe even hang up and block my number.

But I’d never expected the pique of interest in her voice as she replied, “You own a restaurant?”

* * *

“Happy Birthday, Lucas,” I whispered, staring up at his picture on Brady’s mantel.

My heart ached no less than it had the first minute I’d realized he was gone. And on every single one of the 3,467 days since. It had been almost ten years since I’d seen my son, and the wounds were no closer to being healed. Time wasn’t the miracle cure so many had told me it would be. For me, time wasn’t even a Band-Aid.

Reality slashed me every morning when I opened my eyes. Though, through the years, I’d become too callused and numb to feel it anymore. The constant agony had become a way of life.

I stayed busy, kept to myself, and made a difference in other people’s lives as some sort of penance for having failed the one person who had truly depended on me.

That same act of voluntary self-punishment was exactly how I ended up at Brady’s house once a year. With Lucas gone, we had nothing tying us together. No forced relationship God knew neither of us wanted to maintain. Yet there I stood, staring up at a framed picture of my newborn little boy on what would have been his tenth birthday.

“You coming outside?” Tom asked gently.

Wearing a weak smile, I turned to face him.

As we all had, he’d aged. But he’d done it well. The pepper was now missing from his silver hair, and the tiny crinkles that had once pinched around his eyes when he smiled were now a permanent fixture regardless of his expression. He was a far cry from the man who’d knelt in front of me that day at the park, swearing to me that he would never stop trying to find my son.

It was funny. Looking back, I’d realized that not once had he told me that he would find him. Just that he would never stop trying. Fortuitous as it might have been.

“I’d rather be shot,” I replied softly.

After brushing his sports coat back, he slid his hands into the pockets on his khaki slacks. “That makes two of us, then.”

I went back to staring at the picture. It was the same one on my nightstand. I’d long since memorized every curve of his cherubic face. Yet, somehow, seeing it in Brady’s house and not stained with my tears made it feel new.

“Your mom just got here. You’ve got about ninety seconds before she comes looking for you.”

My lids fluttered closed as I sighed. “Christ. Why do they insist on doing this every year?”

His footsteps moved closer, and his hand landed on my shoulder. “It’s therapeutic, Charlotte.”

I shook my head, knotting my hands in front of me. “No. It’s torture. And, quite honestly, it’s a tad disturbing.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s a little bit of that, too.” His hand squeezed gently. “But it makes your mom smile, and Brady usually manages to pull his head out of his ass for at least thirty minutes.”

My shoulders shook as a sad laugh escaped my lips.

Tom Stafford was the father I’d never wanted. He was such an amazing man, but I wished with my whole heart that we’d never been forced to meet. But I guessed, if there were any silver lining to be found in this whole traumatic experience, he would be it.

He’d been the detective in charge of Lucas’s disappearance since day one. In the beginning, we’d spoken every day—usually multiple times. But, as time had marched on, leads becoming fleeting and hope fading out of reach, our relationship had become personal. Whether it was Saturday-night dinners, the occasional drink, or his silence on the other end of the line when I’d call him at three a.m. to sob, he was always there. While I’d never specifically asked why he was so good to me, he’d told me years earlier that he’d lost his daughter to an accidental drowning when she was three. I figured I must have reminded him of her. I don’t know how I would have made it through those first pitch-black years without him.

“You going to ask her out today?” I asked.

His hand spasmed. “Leave it alone.”

“It’s been five years since Dad died,” I stated, peering up at him over my shoulder.

His hazel eyes turned dark as he stared down at me. “I know. I was at the funeral, Charlotte.”

“Then you know it’s time for her to move on. She’s lonely, Tom.”

“Yeah. I know that too. Actually, it’s time for both of the stubborn-ass Mills women to move on,” he said pointedly.

I rolled my eyes and stepped away. I wasn’t a nun or anything, but when the highlights of your social life revolved around dinner and drinks with a fifty-six-year-old man who was sweet on your mother, it could be said that you weren’t exactly far from it.

“Billy was asking about you again. I could—”

“No way,” I said, cutting him off. “We are not discussing Billy Weiner again.”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Come on. He’s a good guy. I’d marry you off to him if I could.”

“His last name is Weiner.”

A smile broke across his face. “Give him a shot, sweetheart. Things work out, you can make him take your last name at the wedding.”

I almost smiled. For the briefest of seconds, the guilt I carried around like a boulder in my chest seemed to defy gravity.