“Mom… did you know that story? About Chloe’s sister?”
I nodded. “Your dad never talked much about the calls he went on. But yes, I knew. He came home that night with burns on his arms and said, ‘I got to hold a little girl who looked just like you, baby. She called me her angel.’”
Wren smiled through fresh tears.
“I felt him tonight,” she whispered. “When Mrs. Harrington was speaking… I felt him right here.” She pressed the badge to her chest.
We stayed up until sunrise talking about Marcus—every funny story, every late-night pancake run, every time he’d carried Wren on his shoulders through the park. For the first time in years, the grief felt lighter. Like it had been witnessed.
The story spread, of course. Someone had recorded Vanessa’s speech. By morning it was everywhere. Local news picked it up. Then national. People from across the country sent messages to Wren—mothers who had lost husbands, daughters who had lost fathers, police officers who shared their own stories.
A week later, Chloe showed up at our door with her mother.
Vanessa looked like she hadn’t slept much. Chloe looked even worse.
“We came to apologize properly,” Vanessa said quietly.
Chloe stepped forward, eyes on the floor at first, then forcing herself to meet Wren’s gaze.
“I was cruel,” she said, voice small. “I was jealous. You looked so… real. And I’ve spent my whole life performing. I’m sorry I ruined your dress. I’m sorry I said those things about your dad. My mom told me everything. I didn’t know.”
Wren studied her for a long moment.
Then she did what her father would have done.
