🔑 Bonus Scene
The Jaylen File
Marisol
The file is thinner than a life should be.
Birth certificate. Two photographs. A hospital bracelet the size of my thumb. Twenty-nine years of a person I gave away compressed into a folder I've carried through four apartments and one marriage.
He's standing in my doorway now, grown, guarded, with his father's jaw and my exact refusal to cry in front of strangers.
"I have questions," he says.
"I have a file," I say, and hand him the only apology I know how to make.
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