It was my parents.
My mother held a photograph against her coat, pressed to her heart as if it were proof of existence. I recognized it instantly. My university graduation picture. My father stood slightly in front of her, trying to block the rain with a jacket that had seen too many winters.
I stopped the car. I lowered the window. Cold rain struck my face.
“Mom. Dad.”
They froze. Their eyes widened, not with relief, but with fear so raw it hurt to see. My father spoke first, his voice barely surviving the rain. “Matthew. Son. You were not supposed to see this.”
I stepped out of the car, shoes sinking into water. “Why are you here. Why are you not at home.”
My mother looked away. Her voice was small. “The house was never really ours, Matthew. Not in the way we thought.”
She hesitated, then whispered a name that turned my bl00d to ice.
My brother Trevor.
