“Rowan, stop the car,” Claire said, her voice barely louder than the wind.
I slammed the brakes, the tires screeching, and followed her gaze to the shoulder.
There stood Megan, faded jeans, worn sandals, a plain gray tee, a canvas bag and a sack of cans, but my eyes were glued to the twins cradled against her.
Both wore pale‑blue hats; soft blond curls peeked out—exactly the shade I catch every morning in the mirror.
My heart hammered. “Those… those hairlines,” I muttered, a cold shiver climbing my spine.
Claire’s smug smile widened. “Well, Megan, looks like life finally gave you exactly what you deserved.”
“Claire,” I warned, my voice a thin thread.
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