Part 1

The first call came while the sun was sinking into the ocean like it had finally decided to quit trying.

The villa’s infinity pool caught the last light and turned it into copper. The glass walls behind me reflected a woman I barely recognized—barefoot on white stone, hair twisted up with a careless clip, a drink sweating in her hand like it belonged there. There were no balloons. No cake. No crowd singing and fumbling through my name.

Just the ocean breathing, in and out, steady as a promise.

My phone buzzed across the marble counter and stopped near the edge. The screen lit up with my son’s name.

Ethan.

I watched it ring until the silence swallowed it.

The second call came thirty seconds later, like he couldn’t stand the idea of being ignored. Then a third. Then a fourth, a string of missed calls piling up like confessions.