But not toward the museum.
I followed from a distance, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. The dot stopped in front of a cozy building decorated with wreaths and string lights.
A brass plaque by the door read:
Molly H. — Family & Child Therapy
My knees nearly buckled.
Through the window, I saw Dan sitting stiffly on a couch. Ruby swung her legs happily. And Molly—real, calm, professional—knelt in front of my daughter, smiling as she held a plush reindeer.
Nothing about it looked romantic.
Nothing about it made sense.
My hand trembled as I reached for the door handle.
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