On my desk, framed photographs waited in silence. In one, a woman stood in a sunlit garden, her smile gentle and unguarded. Rebecca. My first wife. She had possessed a calm strength that made the world feel steady. Beside her photo was another frame, smaller and worn. A little girl laughing, her cheeks flushed as she held a blue balloon twice her size. Ava. My daughter. That laughter had faded from our home after the day Rebecca died giving birth to our son, Lucas.