My seven-year-old granddaughter found a diamond ring at the grocery store and gave it back to its rightful owner. The following morning, a stranger appeared at our front door and declared, “There’s something you need to see. And you need to see it right now!”

“Yes, she did,” Brandon confessed without hesitation.

“Why didn’t she just ask him for it?” I probed.

“Because he’d never agree,” Brandon said flatly. “He won’t even let anyone say Paige’s name in his house.”

“And then Natalie accidentally lost it in a store candy aisle,” I said, putting the pieces together.

“She can explain that whole mess to you herself,” Brandon promised.

“How on earth did you manage to find us here?” I asked suspiciously.

“We’ve been trying to track down Paige for several years,” Brandon said softly. “Three months ago, a private investigator found a legal guardianship record naming you and Harper. That’s when we finally learned Paige had died.”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t even know your own sister was dead?” I asked, feeling a wave of anger rise in my chest.

“No, we didn’t,” Brandon’s voice cracked with genuine emotional pain. “We really should’ve tried much harder to find her.”