The knock was soft. Too soft.
Diana opened the door halfway.
Mr. Thomas stood there, holding a casserole in one hand and a faded photograph in the other.
“Dinner," he said gently. “Just the two of us."
She stared. “You don't cook."
He offered a tired smile. “Your mother did. I just carried it over."
Diana crossed her arms. “Why?"
“I want to talk."
She hesitated. Then stepped aside.
One hour, she told herself. One chance.
---
He set the dish down on her kitchen counter. Didn't touch the food.
Instead, he opened the photo album.
“This is from when you were five. With your first foster family. We got it from the agency after the switch."
She said nothing.
He flipped pages.
“You liked yellow even then. Wore it like armor."
Still silence.
Finally, he said, “We didn't know what
