The penthouse felt like a shrine to a life that was about to end. Every piece of furniture, every photograph, every carefully chosen detail suddenly carried the weight of potential loss. Sterling and I moved through our home with the quiet reverence of people visiting a museum dedicated to their happiness.
Eddie was awake in his nursery, staring up at the mobile above his crib with the intense concentration that newborns brought to studying the world around them. His eyes—those unmistakable Prescott blue eyes that had caused so much trouble—tracked the gentle movement of the hanging shapes with fascination.
"He doesn't know," Sterling said quietly, settling into the rocking chair beside the crib. "Thank God, he doesn't know."
I lifted our son from his crib, marveling at how something so
