AVA’S POV
The Sinclair dining room hadn’t changed. Same polished mahogany table. Same golden chandelier overhead. Same warmth that clung to the air whenever my father was in good spirits.
But what had changed—what shifted the air entirely—were the two little boys perched beside me, their giggles echoing off the high ceiling.
“Grandpa, look!” Aiden balanced a pea on his fork with wobbly determination.
My father, Charles Sinclair, gasped as if witnessing a miracle. “Incredible! A circus star in the making!” He winked and clapped, making Aiden beam.
On my other side, Aaron tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, look.”
I turned, and my chest ached at the sight. Aaron’s eyes—one a clear amber brown, the other a striking shade of blue—gleamed as he held up a perfect half of his bread roll like a tin
